Self Promotion Monday.

Ready?

Okay first up I have a new story out in the latest issue of Yellow Mama.

Here’s a taste:

The White boy keened in the back of his throat, Jorge prodded his bleeding face.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, yes, El Diablo. I heard about you in my Frat house.”

“You murder my language, kid. It’s La Diabla, diabla. The feminine. A girl. You was wrong. You understand me so far, gringo?”

Have some hood noir for lunch, get it here.

THUGLIT Issue 5 (Volume 5) I’m in that too holy crap.

Read me doing spec fic in the April issue of Expanded Horizons. 

And yes these are affiliate links so use or don’t as you please.

These two little kindle items are my small collections of homeless words. Both editions have stories and poems. Each piece is presented essentially as it came out of my head. Most have a little statement type deal talking about how each one was born.

Wayward Words: A Collection of Homeless Words. Vol. 1 and Wayward Words: A Collection of Homeless Words. Vol. 2. The Flash Edition

So whoop whoop.

Consider this my epic read all my words post for the week.

That’s all for right now homies.

Frustration Station.

I started writing an essay about booty shaking (twerking, pussy popping etc) and while I was working on it I had this wonderful idea of including gifs or video to go along at key points of me shaking what I got.

First problem I cannot twerk right. I try but I do not get the epic shake or booty clap necessary for what I am imagining.

This is mainly because a.) I don’t have anyone to put their hands on my ass to show me how it is done and b.) I do not have a lot of ass to work with. Yes I am a fat little lady but I am all tits and hips and not so much ass.

Then of course I thought, who the fuck would publish that?

I’ve been writing these very women of color, non normative bodies things lately and as I’m reading around looking at non fiction I come up against this thing.

Who the fuck would actually publish it?

Understand I’m not writing them for publication necessarily. I write non fiction entirely for myself first.  And we know I am trying to be a working author so don’t bother giving me a pat on the back write for yourself thing.

This is a concern I have.

I am friends with a lot of talented awesome lady authors via various internets social media things. I read their essays about beauty and bodies and whatnot. I look at the pictures that (they don’t usually choose) the stories and the photos represent beautiful “flawed” mostly White thin able bodied women.

This is a thing.

It’s a representation thing.

It’s not a new thing.

There are lady presses that I used to buy ALL the books from as a youngster. When I was learning about writing about bodies and fatness and whatnot.

Long before I even wanted to write about bodies or being a woman and shit, 99% of the books about these subjects I read only ever applied to me in a very thin marginal way.

These days it’s not much different.

As I’ve said before sometimes it’s awesome to be the Big Bad Black Lady Trailblazer.

Most of the time it’s just exhausting.

So I write these things, dream about adding the little multi media bits. Be sad about having no idea what to do with them.

Maybe when I am done with some of these works I will self publish them. I know there is a market. I know WOC and fat women and disabled women etc etc who need it.

I know what I can do in this instance.  Knowing and understanding very keenly just how underrepresented I and people like me are is just exhausting sometimes.

If you can’t understand what I mean when I say that, let me say it this way.

Having no face or voice or presence in things that are so important to me is painful. It hurts from all angles.

The fact is The Nice Pretty Whiteness of everything, hurts.

It really fucking hurts.

This is pretty great.

This is my first night seriously working on my new tiny little computer.

I have decided to name her Bkoop.

I am still so thankful and overwhelmed, thank you again K.

This whole having people I don’t know on a personal level believe in me and my wok in tangible ways is pretty fucking crazy.

Barely a decade ago, I rarely let anyone outside of my partner, my best friend and a few other people read my work. Submitting things made me throw up and more often than not I put myself into the category of hobbyist,

Now people have bought things from me, they read my work. Shit people I don’t know read me here.

It’s really beautiful..

Now how about some writing business news?

I just yesterday logged rejection #82 in my race to 100. I’m super into it.

I have new stuff coming out um, tomorrow and next month and one other thing that I’m not sure about,’

My poetry rejections have been so nice. Even though mags aren’t necessarily wanting to publish them, it means a lot when real poets tell me they enjoyed my poems, I still can’t say out loud that I am a real life poet. I just like to write poems sometimes.

I’m thinking that maybe in October I will do an author site redo. This little computer can do some video so maybe I can do a virtual reading.

Right now I am writing like a mother fucker in order to refill my larder of finished stories. I’m really into flash again,

That’s all for right now. I am wrapped in my trusty leopard print snuggie, naked, with tea at hand and ready to work,

Eternal gratitude.

So something so huge I can’t even say how much it means to me happened today.

Someone bought me a laptop.

The chromebook I’ve been trying to save for and failing because of bills and food.

I’ve mentioned it but my desktop is on her last legs. I’ve had her for about ten years and we’ve been through me learning how to build a computer, rebuilds, hotswapping drives, me learning how to master windows xp, learning how to code HTML, two moves, three monitors, several video and audio cards. I’ve written thousands of words on her,  I’ve lost thousands of words on her.

I’ve been slowly moving files into google drive and working from there. Her dvd deck pooped itself so I haven’t been able to burn off backups. It’s been a thing.

And then this morning just after I got to work Uniballer said there was a mystery box. Neither of us had ordered anything recently so I told him to open it just in case it was something we needed to return and inside…

First Uniballer sent me an all caps holy shit call home right now message and I was afraid it was landlord business or something and he read me the note and I sat here at my desk at work fighting tears.

I’m fighting tears right now.

This is among the kindest most wonderful things anyone has done for me.

I just…you guys.

I look back on the kindness of strangers over the years. Friends from the internet who bought me food when I didn’t have any, the person who bought me pants that at the time were too small but now hilariously fit.

Donations to help me get some thing edited professionally.

All the people who bought my self care book (it’s not available just now I am reworking it).

The people who have stuck around this here little spot even when shit is mean.

now this.

I have to be honest, I almost had a panic attack. Such depths of generosity aimed my way break me in the most wonderful way.

Sometimes life is full of bullshit and stress. Dealing with bullshit and microagressions and all the other bullshit that comes along with perambulating the earth in my body.

And then this.

And you guys.

Homies you are why I’m still here. A big part of my reason for being and doing and writing is that it is important to me to feel like I am doing my part to make the universe a better place for those of us who are on the outside of things. And you all help me fulfill that need.

So before I start sobbing at my desk (seriously)

Thank you.

Thank you K for believing in my writing and me and sending me the one thing I’ve been needing the most. A machine to work on safely. You have saved me so much worry and grief. I can’t even express how thankful I am.

Thank you readers. Yes you homies. Thank you for doing self care with me, and telling me how you are doing. I care about you and I want all of us to if not be okay to at least feel a little better. Thank you for coming here and even if you’re shy, thank you for reading.

Thank you for being awesome and never making being here unpleasant.

Thank you for reminding me when I need to be nicer to myself.

Thank you.

Thank you for everything.

I love you.

Homo Out.

I cross posted this from my regular blog. It applies to y’all too. I’m overwhelmed with goodness and gratitude. I wish I had more words.

Getting it done.

For an odd three weeks I had nothing to submit.

Since I have adopted my Write/Work like a Motherfucker Ethos this is a really weird feeling.

Of course that happens when I was supposed to submit to two magazines I like a lot. Whoops.

I’ve got it licked though. I have some stuff ready to go out after some good market research.

I’ve been doing pretty well at staying on top of my submissions. Sending queries, withdrawing a few things (that always pains me), you know the business things.

Last night while I was working well past when I should have stopped something bad happened, I sent a submission and realized I’d made a misspelling in my little cover letter and I promptly had a meltdown and wanted to die of embarrassment.  I haven’t done that in so long I had a fit and rage quit working and sat in the tub stewing about it. I wanted to send a withdrawal and an apology for being a dumbass. I didn’t but I’m still thinking about it because fuck. Fuck really?

I freaked out. I’m still feeling awful about it.

BUT I did check my calender and some good stuff is happening so I feel sort of better.

I have new work coming out in a couple of weeks. One of my Hood Noir stories is coming out in Yellow Mama and next month one of my erotic crime stories will be out in print in Infernal Ink.

A word about what I’m calling Hood Noir.

I have a problem using the term “urban”. Urban in our culture is code for Black and a few years ago the spate of “Urban” fiction was fucking awful. Poorly written shit that was only Urban because it invariably used a lot of “street” language and had to do with Black people and terrible hip hop tropes blablabla.

The problem was not that these books were being written and published. The problem was that it narrowed down the idea of Urban to a small margin. I found it fairly offensive.

Thus I don’t use the term.

It’s the same problem I tend to have with anything labeled Chick Lit. It’s not the term but it’s the use of the term.

What else?

I also got an acceptance at Loose Leaf Tea. Did I tell y’all that? I’m really happy about that. The mission statement of the magazine when I first read it just spoke to me and then I finished that story and thought it was perfect for that place. It’s really gratifying when your instincts are right on.

I’m still in the midst of angst about the erotica I’ve been writing. In the world of erotic romance I don’t honestly feel like my work and point of view necessarily has a place. Beyond the romanticization of erotica (a term I saw on the Oh Get a Grip blog) given the visuals I see and a lot of the characters in stories I read, where do my characters fit in?

They are not perfect with their flat bellies and long flowing ebon hair. They aren’t shy but super gorgeous. They generally aren’t defaulted to White.

In one story (that I got a very nice rejection for) I did have to change it to specify that the character was a Black woman because talking about her cornrows wasn’t enough.

I didn’t want to change how I described her because it didn’t really fit with the rest of the piece and that was sort of the nail in the coffin for a while. It can be very clear to me when White editors are reading and not seeing or understanding when a character is being coded as a person of color. That’s a difficult thing for me. I don’t want to have to describe a character in ways that make it easy for White readers to understand that X character is not a White person. It’s not really my style nor is it really my preference as a reader.

If I say a character is brown, that doesn’t mean they are a tan White person. You know?

I don’t know.

I’m at the point where thinking about this and trying to navigate my feelings about it, keeping the integrity of my work and whatnot is just too exhausting. I’ll keep writing the filth I’ll just put it away for later use in case the market opens back up to a wider diversity of style etc.

It bums me out. It’s not the first time and for damn sure won’t be the last.

Intersectional angst.

In less angsty news how about some stats? I’m feeling really good about my output right now. Duotrope says this about my percentages right now:

	OVERALL	FICTION	POETRY	NON-FIC
Pending Submissions:	8	3	3	2
Sent Past 12 Months:	55	35	11	9
Sent This Month:	4	1	1	2
Acceptance Ratio:	34.2%*	33.3%*	42.9%*	25%*

The other day I logged in rejection #80 in my run to 100. I’m pretty excited about that.  I can’t wait to show you the full list.

I also have 1 non duotrope listed piece out.

For the rest of the week I’m planning on finishing up some flash pieces, transcribing some poetry out of my notebook and refining an essay about feminism.

I’m also in dire need of getting my budget/saving plan for a chromebook back on schedule. Unfortunately I had to spend what I’d saved on bills and food.  My poor desktop at home is so slow and unstable. I’m slowly backing things up but my dvd burner no longer works so I’m having to cloud store/move to usb when I can all my work and important documents. I’m hoping she’ll last until can get a chromebook. Pray to the Gods of Technology that this happens.

Okay that’s all.

Oh my.

I’m just finishing up a few pieces of erotica.

They are filthy, kinky gender fucking madness.

They are not romantic.

They are not sensual (fuck I hate that word).

They are not stories I would be okay with having arty airbrushed White people on the covers of.

They aren’t really “ethnic” enough for arty airbrushed brown people.

Two of them are pants scorchers. They are similar but one is marginally hetero flavored the other one lesbian.

There is a lot of crying, spanking and big dicking lady Leather Daddies.

From the time of my first erotic publication about what now 15 years ago or so? The market has been heavily romanticized and homogenized.

Frankly the erotica that is to my taste (I’ll give links and suggestions later) is rare.

As I’ve said before, the covers bother me. I’d rather have a plain cover though I know that’s a bad marketing move.

But, I can’t bring myself to submit to some of the few places I might sneak in because I don’t see me being marketed to.

I was just checking out one press and every category except the ‘ethnic” one was oceans of White people who are all very conventionally attractive in a stock photo kind of way, unchallenging and for me as a reader not really a turn on.

I’m in that bitter place where I feel edged out because what I think is romantic and makes me tingly in the crotchal region isn’t what brings in the big bucks.

Or maybe this is one of those angsting author things.

I don’t know.

What I mostly feel as I do my market research is this:

• Uncomfortable (pick a reason. I’m not heterosexual, I’m not White, I’m not into that being all there is)
• Transgressive in my queer up all the things attitudes towards how I write sexuality.
• Unmarketable.
• Disquiet. Where (as I believe Remittance Girl has asked) is the edge? Where is the fuck you (no that’s not how she put it) in all these nice romantic with some spanking things?

All that said, I don’t care if that’s what you like or what you write.

Shit go on with your bad self. Write it like a mother fucker and make that money if you can. That’s awesome.

What’s not awesome is that every time I go to maybe submit some smut someplace, feeling all those feelings that are not good.

When romance started filtering into the industry and there were fewer edgy (I also hate using that word in this context) markets I stopped writing a lot of erotica.

We know I don’t generally write for profit.

But I don’t want to let them molder.

I’m tempted to self publish them.

However I am not the best at that.

Self promotion isn’t my strong suit.

So I’m going to collect them up and maybe shop it to some of the more adventurous presses.

I don’t know.

I suppose the part that always gets me is the fact that there’s room for all of the things.

From boot licking in an alley nasty to the sweet sweet romantic.

It doesn’t have to be this way.

So okay what do I like? Let me show you some of my favorites. These are classics in my head:

Rough Stuff: Tales of Gay Men, Sex, and Power edited by Simon Shepphard and M. Christian.  Uh fuck this book is so hot. SO hot. Raunchy, filthy, nasty and everything I love.

If you like erotica and don’t know M. Christian’s work come on son. My favorite way to be a M. Christian pusher is his collection Dirty Words. Just get it.

Best Bisexual erotica. Get all of them.

So yes those are pretty queer but if you look at even the descriptions you’ll probably get what I’m talking about.

I’m tired and emotional. I should get my contacts out and calm down. It will be fine. I will figure it out.

In the meantime go buy a dirty book you won’t be sorry.

Holy crap!

So some good stuff has happened.

I got a very nice note about my story in Thuglit.

I also forgot to mention before but, holy shit. A little experimental erotic flash story I made quite a while ago and had no idea what to do with won a spot in the Solarcide Sinthology. This is a biggy type first. My first contest type thing and my first placement. I’m pretty stoked about that.

Next up I got a lovely (no really super nice) acceptance fro LooseLeaf Tea. You should check it out, the name is cool and it’s a quality zine. I’m super proud of that story because it addresses parts of Blackness that cannot be shoveled into being strictly pain porn nor is it the “Urban” experience. I’m really excited about that.

Next month I’m going to be in the fantastic Yellow Mama with one of my (the first actually) Hood Noir stories.

Later this summer (not sure when) I have some crime, arson and sex erotica coming out in print that I’m super excited about.

Now how about some other stuff to read?

We know how much I love Antonia Crane. You should go read her latest post. Just go read it.

Via Brevity on facebooks, I found out Ireland has done a really cool thing and put an entire story on a stamp. Also for serious I’m no collector of stamps but if any of y’all happen to be in/near to Ireland and might be able to send me one I would paypal you dollars.

Speaking of Brevity. Brian Doyle said the most beautiful thing about the origins of his essay “Sachiel the Tailor” The essay is lovely go read it. Also go read what he said about how it came to be. This part here just moves me. So beautiful.

When he appeared in my memory I could then hear his voice again, and feel the slicing wind down that narrow little street, and so I begin to type, and time is transcended, and space, and loss, and this is one of those sweet powerful holy things about writing that we do not talk enough about, I think; writing is a time machine, writing resurrects, writing gives death the finger.

Seriously. That is just fucking gorgeous.

A magazine I like, Stonecoast review is really wanting some creative non fiction. Go forth and submit.

Check it out. Vida wants words from Vida readers. Click here to see what they said on fb.

I think that’s all for right now. I have work to do.

See anything cool on the internet lately? Written something cool? Feel free to drop a link in the comments and share with the class.

Flapping my Chicken wings.

So okay.

I’m in the midst of stretching my little chicken wings and trying to put together a series of articles to pitch to an online magazine for money.

Have you ever watched a chicken try to fly? Some can fly, some only think they can and others run around in crooked circles flapping and squawking in increasing distress.

I am in the last category.

I am nervous about embarking on a small bit of real grown up freelance work if I get it.

My main reasons for this are as follows:

1. I am growing increasingly stressed out from dayjob things, financial worries (summer is always super tight money wise), things I need to work on said freelance/grown up authors things and their cost.
2. Circumstances beyond my control.

The thing with the financial problems is this.

While I’m not the wee impoverished writer I was a decade ago but, I am the breadwinner in my household.

That is a whole other set of holy shit.

Over the years I still haven’t learned how to balance out the real costs of writing (time, equipment etc) with keeping my household in good food and health.

I really am struggling with this right now y’all. It’s making me feel terribly anxious and upset.

The thing is that my home computer is really on her last legs. Cunty Beast (her name) has been my faithful companion for ten years of rebuilds.  When I thought i wanted to go into IT Cunty and I spent a lot of the time disassembled on the floor together. The only thing original on her is the floppy drive and the case. I’ve reinstalled windows XP a few times, I’ve learned to make XP run like I want it to but, really it’s time for her to retire.

Which leads me to a confession.

I still haven’t purchased a Chrome book. the people who donated to my tattoo birthday fund kindly didn’t want their money back. I withdrew it from gofundme and bills happened. An unusually high electric bill because it got so cold in our place. We learned this year that when the apartment below us is empty in the winter our heating bill goes way up.

So blablablabla.

I had to use my computer money to pay bills and buy food.

So while I am not on the cusp of let’s take a whole saturday and take buses around to every foodbank we think might serve us, I am firmly in the poor folks place where spending even 150$ on the cheapest chromebook could mean that we have to eat dollar store food for most of the month or our cell phones might be cut off.

Me being me with my particular set of anxieties, I start trying to figure out how to hustle more money up so I don’t feel so guilty and shitty for spending out of the household budget on things not necessary for survival.  When I was younger this usually took the form odd sex work. Personal photos for a foot fetishist, phone sex,  at one point I sold cheeky grainy webcam shots of my ass to old British men.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve done surveys o the internet, auctioned off things. Sometimes I do shit like this (the link is me writing tiny kind of dumb articles for fractions of pennies). At one time my health was good enough for me to just take ALL of the overtime hours.

I cut financial corners. I don’t buy X things.  blablabla.

Basically I’m in a place where creating is hard because there is so much shit that falls to me to take care of and I just don’t know how to balance all these things out.

How do I handle this stress and be able to write AND try to do something to better the financial situation?

I’m lost.

At sea.

My chicken wings are getting tired and I just want to lay down.

I want to be back in that place where I can write my sometimes nifty stories and not be so consumed by all the other stuff.

Fuck.

 

Drudgery of Writers work.

I am in the middle of the drudgery of writing.

Cleaning up my rejection pile/excel sheet.

Checking how long whatever pieces have been out.

Sent two queries and one  withdrawal.

Checking some zines for updates.

Pining for an answer, even a fuck off stop talking to us type answer.

I seem to have a penchant for submitting to zines when they mysteriously stop updating their online presences.

I’m following tumblrs, liking facebook pages. Checking out some recommended stuff.

I’ve done some necessary research.

Written a short poet statement. I may actually put that here if I get rejected from there. It’s true enough.

What I’m not doing right now is writing.

I’m too keyed up from a bullshit 2 hour commute. Cat calls, creepy old men thinking I’m a hooker. Police activity in my neighborhood.

But this is part of doing it.

This is grinding. This is the shit I don’t always enjoy. But it’s necessary.

I’ve been considering pitching my first thing and I’m honestly in fucking knots about it. I’m not sure if I want to write the things and stuff first. I think that might make me feel better.

How about some stats?

According to Duotrope:

OVERALL	FICTION	POETRY	NON-FIC
Pending Submissions:	9	4	3	2
Sent Past 12 Months:	51	34	10	7
Sent This Month:	6	2	3	1
Acceptance Ratio:	37.5%*	35.7%*	50%*	25%*

I’m fairly pleased with how things are going. I need to get some stuff finished and get it out into the wild.

Gotta drive down that acceptance ratio one rejection at a time.

According to my spreadsheet with this last withdrawal I’m at #76. Race you to 100, When I get there I’ll post the whole list.

Now if y’all will excuse me I feel gross and stinky. I’m going to bathe and read.

Later this week I have some ruminations about editing, writing and modern expectations of the super educated mystery author and how that is not really my jam.

Also I’m probably going to kvell all over you about something really cool that someone I admire said to me.

That’s all. Goodnight folks.

Further notes on the care and feeding of the Writer.

It has come to our attention that more notes on the care and feeding of The Author are necessary for optimal output, Author happiness and caretaker sanity.

As the season changes the caretaker may notice a change in the behavior of The Author. Typically any of the following:

• Increased mumbling.
• Wriggling.
• Moaning that may or may not sound like mooing.
• Raging about pollen, trees, flowers and nature.
• Sniffling.
• Larger intake of water.
• Shearing of body hair.

All of the above may be signs of Allergies.

Author is often unable to produce when itchy from head to toe, sniffling or congested.

Caretaker is to immediately administer strong antihistamines. Note, The Author will be elated for a half hour with relief and slowly succumb to the dreaded Benedryl drunkenness. Things the Caretaker may see, please do not be alarmed.

• The Author may start listing to one side or another in her chair.
• The Author may start talking all manner of shit about everything.
• The Author may stare glassy eyed at everything.

Do not panic!

The Author must be put into bed or if already in bed told to Go the Fuck to sleep.

Dear Caretakers take heart. Once the allergies have settled into manageable annoyance, allow Author to roam freely.

Also as the weather improves the Author will appear in patently ridiculous states of undress once inside. Naked with socks on, cardigan and no panties, tank top and no panties, bra and socks, leopard print snuggie over nakedness. Again, do not be alarmed. The Author is closely related to certain species of reptiles and has a hard time maintaining body heat. Ignore unless The Author sneaks and closes windows or cranks the heat. It is permissible to spank the Authors hand or to put a blanket on her.

Intrepid Caretakers may want to have any of the following on hand to soothe the Author as she sashays through allergies and Springtime:

• Hot tea
• Red (never yellow or green, both will cause Author to become unreasonable) Gatorade.
• Crackers.
• Tortilla chips and her own bowl or jar of salsa.
• Large salads with meat, cheese and many vegetables.
• Fine smelling luxurious bath items.
• Unguents in the form of butters, oils, lotions and balms.
• A variety of hearty lip balms.
• Dark roasted coffees and her own personal French Press and her cup.

A word to wise Caretakers. Do not take some of her tirades personally. The Author flunked sharing in kindergarten and might try to stab you with a fork or pen if you try to use her goodies or eat her snacks. This period of crabby toddlerhood will pass with the Spring and the Author will return to her sweet stabby self in time.

And as a gentle reminder Caretakers, The Author does not come with batteries, sexual favors, perkiness, or stable moods.

God speed.

And good luck.