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.

 

 

But how much does it cost.

I saw a link to this article via Court Merrigan (read his work yo) about the cost of that writers small literary ambitions. Great title by the way.

One of the ever present issues with writing for me since the first painfully typed on high quality paper, stuffed in a high quality envelope and sent off first class submission I made at 16 until right this instant, the cost of being a non famous (or moneymaking) writer has been on the forefront of my thoughts.

In the past let’s say year or so I’ve been getting a lot of mail both snail and e telling me about all the exciting opportunities for things I am now eligible for since the world has found out I do this thing.

Conferences, reference books, classes, websites, writing organizations, kickstarters, indiegogo projects. You name it someone tells me if I am serious about my career as a writer I need to buy their class, attend the conference, go to the retreat etc.

Okay let’s not blow smoke, a lot of those are just for someone to make money.I ‘m not mad about that.

But the thing is that is often skipped in conversations about pay to write vs being paid to write are those of us who work on a tight budget.

For perspective.

So far this year I have earned 80$ with my writing.

That paid for my Duotrope subscription for the year and a new pair of shoes.

When it comes to budgeting out the seemingly small sums for contests, reading fees etc I rarely see people talk about the cumulative costs to people who have dayjobs that are not flexible or jobs where being a free spirit artist who wants to jet off to someplace for a reading is really a thing.

I talked about this before but when I think about the 15$ submission/reading fees or even the 5$ ones a number of things must be considered beyond the pitch that if you only did any of the following, people would take you so much more seriously. Here is a little list of some of the things I have been told to do in order to be serious about writing.

• Subscribe to every magazine you submit to. 
• Subscribe to magazines that are at the forefront of the field.
• Join AWP or AWP type organizations.
• Go to conferences to network.
• Go to literary events I am invited to, to network.
• Read my work when I am invited.
• Submit to X zines reading fees or my feelings about them be damned.
• Buy Literary swag.

Yadda yadda.

Now when I’ve been told these things (as recently as Feb.) or given the eleventy million reasons why it is so valuable to take that class, had other authors/artists ask me on a personal level why I don’t support their art blabla.

It can all be very very exhausting.

I wonder if the people who tell me these things, especially if they know me and my circumstances personally ever feel like they are contributing to a bad thing?

Outside of my own frustrations and hurt feelings there is the idea that one must do all this education and pay the price to have any success.

I know that saying you took X class from X hot author is pretty fucking awesome.

I also know that not taking that class probably won’t kill your career.

If we perpetuate the idea that one must be able to support all the classes, subscriptions, member dues, travel etc monetarily in order to be a writer who is taken seriously, are we saying that if someone doesn’t have those resources that they are not to be taken seriously?

During the whole duotrope kerfluffle I saw a lot of ugly classist things. A lot of that (uniquely?) America Boot Strapping attitude that if all us poor people would just go without our coffee, or internet, or telephone or whatever than we could have whatever we want. The big problem with that is assuming that creature comforts are only to be earned. If the idea is that if a poor person can have a smart phone, they must not really be poor right?

If a poor person buys a cup of coffee at Starbucks a few times a week but can’t afford to shell out 50 clams at once, well they just aren’t trying right?

Goddamn poor people, if only they’d take those days off and save up that money everything would be great right?

No.

I  personally find it awfully telling when someone who is a has (for lack of a better word) telling me that I am not serious or good or even that I am probably morally questionable because there are certain creature comforts I don’t want to jeopardize with large (in my world over 25$) purchases.

Think about that.

Look at someone you don’t really know and tell them that if they’d just keep wearing those shitty shoes that hurt their feet, they too could have all the worldly things you do.

I would like to be using hyperbole but unfortunately I’ve experienced this a lot and it infuriates me.

I don’t like the idea that if someone like me for instance doesn’t want to shell out upwards f 500 bucks to go to a convention or class, that I (and folks like me) am less than.

I don’t think that’s right.

Also when something that was free that someone like me depends on becomes pay, yes we get angry. Not because we’re all lazy want a free ride freeloaders but, any unexpected bill when you are poor can fuck things up for months.

When you run on a tight budget, random  expenses that if you remember for me it was the should I or shouldn’t I pay for duotrope thing, are stressful.

My personal process goes like this.

HOLY SHIT THIS THING IS AWESOME…

For Duotrope it has made an enormous change in how I work and how I get published and how I get rejected. Using Duotrope has upped the quality of my submissions as well as the quality of magazines I submit to. I depend on it.

Now when it came to spending the 50 dollars my situation in the finances department wasn’t so bad we weren’t eating good food but was tight enough that spending that 50 dollars worried the fuck out of me. I got very stressed out. Even more stressed out when I paid.

Between then and now there have been a few situations where that fifty bucks would have made a difference. One month it would have kept my partners cell phone bill paid on time. Or gotten him medication. It might have gotten me to and from work when I lost my bus pass.

The big thing here is that laying out dollars is not just laying out dollars.

Whether it’s for member dues, reading fees, whatever it (more so for poor folks) a deeply intersectional, stressful, often terrible issue.

I will say to those who don’t sweat the money. Please think about it before you open your mouth on the issue and before you judge someone who says, I’m out that’s too expensive.

Think about time off from jobs that don’t provide paid vacation, think about is this person the bread winner for their household? Think about, am I being a hurtful back of dicks when I flippantly tell this person that if only they would suffer or decrease their quality of life, they’d be good or eligible to be taken seriously.

Shit I talked way too much about this.

But, it’s really a central theme in my whole life from my writing, how I work, to my clothes to whether or not I eat well.

So I guess the point is let’s not be dicks to each other when it isn’t necessary.

I will return later this week with some thoughts about the erotic chapbook I’m working on, how nervous I am about making my duotrope usage okay in my mind even though it’s paid for.

And I’ll probably review the HardCore Hard Boiled anthology I’m about done reading. Spoiler alert it’s really fucking good.

 

Thoughts about Game of Thrones, Fantasy and the Mystical Negroes and Brown people.

I recently finished reading the first book in the Game of Thrones series (for our purposes, GOT) and I had this terrible hate/like relationship with it.

After the initial bit of the book that I didn’t like the first time I tried to read it, I started to enjoy Martin’s universe.

What I liked about it was how richly he builds worlds. I love the mythos in that world, the bounce and flow of his prose.

And then I would find myself seething with some kind of nameless nerd rage that made me rant and rave aimlessly to myself. And then I’d be fine.

One thing we can attribute this to is that the structure of the book doesn’t have chapters but has character name headings. I liked that. But finally it dawned on me after grumbling and growling to myself through a whole section what was bothering me.

There is a marked difference in how the Other (the Mystical Brown Dothraki) were written in contrast to even the more minor of the Civilized (read: white) characters.

Granted SHIT SORRY SPOILERS) these sections are written through the eyes of wee Daenerys Targaryen.  Who at points becomes the Whitest Savior princess ever but we’ll get to that. Now at the end of the book I know more as a reader about Grumpkins, dead guys walking and assholes at the Wall than I do about the Dothraki.

Even when Daenery’s husband Drago is speaking whatever it comes across very grunty. Basically as I put it to someone else, it’s all blood, horses, rapey rapey murder kill, fucky rapey rapey.

It is hinted at through the behavior of the Dothraki characters that there is some richness behind them but because of the way the book is structured I went from rapey rapey murder to the beautiful loving descriptions of the civilized people.

It was not super obvious beyond my usual discomfort with Mystical Negroes and other Brown people in stories. What did become highly evident was that in Martin’s world the Other is never written as beautifully as the Civilized even when, they are part of the central world and characters.

It was maddening and disheartening.

Here is the problem with a lot of Fantasy and other genre fiction I have as I get older.

Now let’s leave GOT for a minute and go back in time to me reading the Narnia Chronicles.

Okay let me tell you that I really fucking loved those books. I read all of them repeatedly during my childhood. I had dreams about meeting Aslan and fighting while riding a fucking centaur.

I LOVED them.

At the same time, because I was in fact a little Black child I was also acutely aware of without having the language to express that I was missing.

I turned 36 yesterday and remember with painful acuity the sadness and confusion as to why if there were unicorns, aliens, centaurs and shit in the books I was reading why weren’t there any Black kids?

When I watched (raptly and repeatedly understand) fantasy movies like The Never Ending Story or the Last Unicorn (two of my favorite to this day) I understood that while I could partake in these worlds, I could not be in them. Even in pretend worlds where there are giant sneezy tortoises,  I was not welcome.

At least that is how I parsed the absence of fellow children of color in books, television and movies.  I understood that we could be on Sesame Street but not in Narnia. I understood on a visceral level that I could be a street kid or shucking and jiving in an urban scene in the land of make believe but I couldn’t be in the Shire.

As a child these things manifested as me feeling like I was trespassing when I read The Hobbit. Like, I shouldn’t have even been trying to read it.

As I got older, that feeling of being disconnected and unwelcome turned into something else. I just stopped reading a lot of fantasy and sci fi. I loved it but, I felt too keenly that I couldn’t be a part of it in a meaningful way. I was uncomfortable enough that escaping into a world just as White as the one I was living in wasn’t cutting it for me.

My teenage reading years were spent figuring out what I could tolerate. While I could tolerate Stephen King’s attempts to get Black folks into his stories (magical negroes about) I can tolerate it from him.

Others not so much. I think I tolerate it (to this day) from King so much because even with the absence of POC in the first few of his books I read when I was 8-9 years old, I still loved them. Because so many of them were set in a way that I could understand (or justify I imagined) why there weren’t POC because as a kid I didn’t  think there were Black folks in New England.

What I started to learn was how to think more critically about my reading and watching preferences based not only on how much I liked it but the things themselves. For a while I read a lot of classics and got pissed off that they were all (at the time, early 90s) written by white people except for The Color Purple. I was learning to question Whiteness which was good and bad. On the good side I was learning to spot and think about race in a critical way. Bad int hat I had nobody to talk about these things with.

My questions went ignored by teachers. Or shooed away with the usual White nonesense. “Stop reading into things.” “that’s just how things were in those days”, “stop being so sensitive” and my favorite to date, “stop pulling the race card”.

At that age I was still able to overlook a lot of shit in order to have books to read and things to watch. There was some thing I have lost in the intervening years. My tolerance has gone way down. My ability to just gloss over the parts that make me mad has disappeared.

Now we’re back at the present.

As much as I try a lot of fantasy just becomes White People Noise in my head. I get frustrated because it’s 20 fucking 13 and I can’t enjoy the fan base for a lot of things because holy fucking shit so racist I can’t even.

And here we find why I can accept Magical Negroes in Kings work. At this point I feel like fuck, at least he’s been trying for thirty years. Granted, it’s often kind of grating and I shake my head but at least he’s trying.

He isn’t white girls who are the voice of their generation, whining about how it’s so hard to include POC and they just can’t write about them. It’s not watching racist ass Tolkien fans go CRAZY because some of the Hobbits might be brown or Black. It’s not people telling me that having Black people in an Arthurian legend style myth or show is distracting BUT it’s totally not a distraction to have talking dragons and shit.

The former is comfortable most of the time where the latter hurts all the time.

These are all reasons why I liked and loathed GOT. I am going to try and finish the series because unread series of books that I’ve started drive me insane.

I fell back on some King and another collection by Brandon Massey. As people are often intoning when minorities want to be represented I am working on my first straight up fantasy story.

After my crime and noir reading spree with the sprinkling of horror, I’ll go back to some fantasy. I’ll probably look for some more fantasy books by POC. I’ll try to quiet that WHY ARE THEY ALL WHITE voice in my head while I read.

That’s all I can really do about it right now.

That’s all.

Write like A Mother Fucker is what she said.

Once upon a time, I was not writing much. I was not submitting much. I was just kind of going along writing catch as catch can and whatnot.

And then Dear Sugar at the Rumpus said a thing in 2010 that changed everything.

At the time I didn’t know that Sugar was Cheryl Strayed, I didn’t know who Elissa Bassist is.

Go read the original column here.

But the salient thing is this, this happened.

So write, Elissa Bassist. Not like a girl. Not like a boy. Write like a motherfucker.

The whole column is fantastic. But that, here let me recount what happened.

I sat reading that end line over and over, it was like there was a woman sitting slightly behind me, holding me in a strong arm and whispering in my ear.

I remember sitting there, reading it over and over, nodding to myself. Laughing a little bit and then moving along on the internet.

I thought about both Elissa and Sugar (Cheryl) off and on for a few weeks after that.

I thought, shit how do I write?

I wrote a lot, but not as much or as well as I wanted to. I wrote a lot of things that I felt but not deeply. I wrote what I wanted to believe would get me published  I sat and seethed with yes, a lot of jealousy and stink face.

And then it happened, what happened?

I started writing like a mother fucker.

I started writing like I don’t care.

I started writing the shit I want to read.

The important thing is that I realized that despite my frequent protestations of writing what the fuck I want I don’t always.

No one does. It comes and goes.

Sometimes, no matter our intentions it is of dire importance to have someone you admire (in this case both SugarCheryl and Elissa) to say, work it out.

Write like a mother fucker.

This is a moment like the moment I had when someone told me (as in I read in a book or article) that even though I don’t really get paid to write like it’s my fucking job.

I write, like it is my fucking job.

One of the things I value about having so much access to writers I admire, is learning from them. I have said it here before but, I have to say it again and again.

My invisible mentors. The people who have held my hand. If you’ve read me for more than five minutes we all know that I don’t do that whole clever clever, does this person actually like what they are talking about? Are they being so clever that it’s obfuscated?

That is not how I roll and we know I don’t understand or deal with that well.

So let me say again and again and again.

I write about people I’ve never met. When someone I admire says they know my name or my work, I melt. I flail. I freak the fuck out.

When I read things like Sugar/Cheryl’s response to Elissa’s question, it tears out my heart and licks it.

Sometimes there is a voice. It may be a big voice like Cheryl’s or it might be a tiny voice, that tells you the exact thing you need.

I am forever thankful and indebted to Cheryl and Elissa.

Thank you ladies. I love you.

Things to relearn.

So far this year I’ve written some new horror stories.  I haven’t actively pursued having any horror published in a few years and while I’ve been doing market research I noticed a few things.

Horror magazines tend to be far more strict about formatting. Most I’ve been interested in submitting to specifically state that submissions must adhere to manuscript format.

It’s interesting to me that even some of these magazines that don’t do print, still insist on manuscript format when we know that in an online environment that makes for a bit more work on the part of the editors who have to reformat for online publication.

I find this a tad puzzling, especially publications that don’t have a print history.

Especially the sites that I know (because I’m nosy) run on a wordpress type platform. I know how taxing it can be to move text and have it still look right.

I wonder if it is part of the whole idea that if someone follows that directive they are likely to have a better submission? Is it a stopgap measure to immediately weed out the undesirables? A lot of the non genre zines I read and/or submit to have some quirk in the guidelines that is specifically for this purpose.

I would really be into seeing some interviews type things about this.

In the meantime I’m relearning how to do manuscript format, it’s a tedious process. I write single spaced without a lot of formatting or indents so I spend a lot of time trying to make sure I’ve done it correctly. Mainly because I don’t want to get shitcanned because my spacing isn’t perfect.

In my case that isn’t really a problem with following instructions. More an issue of my spatial perception and I can’t always tell visually when I’ve done it correctly. Also a problem with my vision.

But all I can do is do my best. I’m not mad if a story gets shitcanned and unread because I did something wrong. That is an editors prerogative.

I do all right.

In the meantime. While I am getting my horror related shit together, can we talk about the fact that I have a tiny bit of money left to play with and how I”m ordering some lit stuff?

I just spaced out.

Fuck I am so exhausted y’all. It’s been a bad round of insomnia and I am proper fucked. So that’s all for now.

Bodies Made of Smoke. A review.

So not long ago I bought some books from Mr. J. Bradley.

Out of the tasty parcel of pretty little books I picked ‘Bodies Made of Smoke‘ to read first.

Go here to see where you can buy it.

First because I’m a nerd about these things let me talk about how pretty this little book actually is.

Terrible picture but look at it. That lovely starry design wraps around the whole book and it has a matte finish and I find it all terribly aesthetically appealing

Yes, I am kind of a fool for a beautiful design and this one just tickles me.

Now on to the content.

If you are a lover of linear stories that will make perfect sense immediately, this is probably not going to be your jam.

This novella is dreamy, strange and beautiful. The way J. Bradley uses language and the formatting of the language slows down the eye so the reader can linger over the prose. I love that. Slow me down, I read very fast (with an excellent retention rate..yes I am bragging) and when I feel my eye drag on really beautiful prose I am very pleased.

Look at this here.

 

Look at that typography.

Also can we talk about the top paragraph?

Mr. Bradley does this thing with this simple clean style that is still, the whole thing is just done beautifully.

So in my entirely not professional opinion this is a very beautifully done novella. From the time you have it in your hot little hand until you read it it will all be fucking great.

I actually read it twice because because I loved it. Also if you haven’t read more of Mr. Bradley’s work this will make you want to read it. I have some more of his work chapbooks and stuff I will be reading/savoring them and talking about them later on.

So go buy this book. Read it. Feel dreamy and I have to mention that some of it (I am trying not to be spoilery) hit this special delighted nerd part of my soul in a way that speaks to me on a deep level and gives me abject joy.

JOY people.

This is a beautiful thing. This is what I’m greedy for. I love it.

Thank you J. Bradley for bringing me some joy. I dig it.

Holiday Indulgence.

I’m at work and I watched Hellraiser and did some testing.

I was trying to write or edit and it’s not happening today. I feel like I’m not going to make 50 submissions for the year and I’m a little bummed.

46 all in is not bad for the year. I’ m disappointed but thus is what writing is a lot of the time right?

Now I’m watching this:

Check Out Hubert Selby Jr: It’ll Be Better Tomorrow on Hulu.
( http://www.hulu.com/watch/151127 )

I feel like I’ve watched this close to New Year’s every year since this documentary came out.

I also indulged in some lit today. I bought Kindle editions of:  Moondog over the Mekong by Court Merrigan, Out of the Gutter 8 and Gorel and the Pot Bellied God by Lavie Tidhar.

AND I pre-ordered The Heroin Chronicles. They are all part of my Xmas.

I don’t do Christmas really so when present giving times happen in my house my partner and I each just buy the shit we want and tell each other we love each other. It makes life easier.

I feel very rich in all the words I have to look forward to. Not even to mention the print books I have.

I think I want to try and take a submissions break until March or so. I want to have a whole stable of new stories and things to put out. I have things to finish. I think that is a good plan.

Okay I started this yesterday.

I changed my mind I’m making fifty I don’t give a shit. I was also just digging about in my email and realized that between 2006-2010 I did not submit any poetry anywhere. I don’t believe it was a conscious decision. I dunno it seems strange.

I don’t get that but whatever.

Last night I finished reading Perv A Love Story by Jerry Stahl. I thought I’d read it but I realized partway in that I think I read a piece of it in an anthology or some such at some point.

I really enjoyed the book. Jerry Stahl has a way of writing protagonists that I like and at the same time I shake my head and say oh you poor bastard, while chuckling. This is the sort of Fucked Up White Guy I can deal with because it’s the type I’ve known.

There is a tone to his Fucked Up White Guys that doesn’t necessarily bang my will you shut the fuck up buttons. It’s a hard thing to pin down much less describe, it just happens. I also loved the perversions of the protagonist. He is such a weirdo not because of his behavior necessarily but because when he’s thinking about these things there’s such a process to it, so much emotional hand wringing and I like how he writes that kind of neurosis.

I also read Meat Heart by Melissa Broder last night. I missed a bus, plopped on a bench under a streetlamp, put my headphones on and hood up and read it. Damn I thought I still had it in my bag. I’m no educated poetry reader but there were a lot of moments I found myself finishing a poem and kind of staring up at the streetlight, I probably looked nuts with a little smile on my face but, her syntax is really beautiful. Over at the Rumpus Paul Tunis illustrated one of her poems Bones, go look.

Her poetry in this book is varied enough not to be repetitive but, the links between poems are there if you listen. It was such a pretty little book to read, I want to hear someone read it to me actually. I prefer poetry to be read to me (because I”m a fucking princess) and I want to hear her preferably read it to me.

I love reading tiny poetry books like this, they always feel so intimate to me. Good ones feel like the poet is breathing gently on my neck and maybe rubbing my butt and occasionally pinching me really hard but then kissing it and making it better.

That’s what I want in poetry. I want it intimate, I want gross, I want stinky humanity. Meat Heart gave it to me.

I think that’s all for right now.

I seem unable to do anything but do a little dance in my chair, think about my many new things to read and plot my continuing toil in obscurity.

This may or may not be my last post for the year. In case it is, thank you for coming here.

I did not start this thinking anybody but maybe two people would read it. I appreciate y’all coming by have a safe and wonderful New Year.

This is a test.

Please ignore the lady behind the curtain.

Things that are hard.

I’m still sick and not sleeping well and am thus not doing things the way I normally do.

When I am this crazy and this tired writing is hard. My brain is too full and too strange to do anything with.

These are the times I value my little notebooks so much. My new one is a purple wide ruled composition book, the cover of which bears my scrawled personal bit of stolen words, Write Like A Mother fucker.

Inside is my toll free number and email address if I lose it.

I’ve been writing in it, especially these days with how I’m feeling. Tonight I wrote a passel of angry senryu and I wrote a tiny erotic thing about Oshun.

I am too raw for any planned or long thought about writing. Everything rubs me raw or wrong.

I just logged a painful withdrawal. I really wanted that actual rejection. Having my repeated queries entirely ignored stung. I take silence kinda personal like.

I am aching for rejections. This inability to get things out right now is fucking with me.

So yeah.

In other news, I am so excited that my little story No Habla finally got accepted. I think it is the time of year to make some big swing type submissions. Those are the Big Fucking Deal To Me zine submissions that I am 90% sure I will get rejected but doing it does a lot for me.

Anything else?

Not really. I want to talk about privilege again, mainly in response to something a (former?) reader asked me. I need more stamina for that though, it’s not going to be a nice post.  I also want to talk about my voice problem and how it relates to things I write.

Actually let me do that right now.

So I wrote a little thing last week, quick fast boom boom boom and I realized today that it went fast because in my head Remittance Girl was speaking it. Not that she personally was the narrator but the narrator has her physical voice in my head.

That is the thing that makes writing good for me. I think it stems from my voice fetish, yes I do really have one. Being that I frequently write in the first person I need a narrator to talk in my ear. I actually hear it. sometimes I can’t remember if I’ve eaten or peed but I can remember the nuances of a voice with frightening alacrity.

I can remake pitch and timbre, I can hear the voice in and around the words and suddenly when I get the audio, things are fucking magic.

I have a really hard time without the audio.

I think that’s all. I am so exhausted I feel like I have crackbugs and I’m seeing shit out of the corner of my eye.

Oh the horror.

I know I said I was going to review Roxane’s book this post but that needs to wait because there’s a couple of lines I want to share and I left the book in my drawer at work.

Instead I want to talk about writing craft type stuff.

If you haven’t been here before I am a big horror lover. Yes, alongside my literary muckity muck I do love me a good horror story. Horror novels were the first I fell in love with, spent hours in bed under the covers with my flashlight reading ‘Firestarter’ at age 9 and trying to figure out how to awaken my own wee pyro abilities. I remember reading other horror novels, especially those fantastic John Saul ones with the creepy children and being pretty butthurt that I was not so scary.

I still love horror. I keep up with that end of the literary pond, I read horror. I am now a total devotee of the Pseudopod Podcast. I have delusions of someday hearing my own work there.

Most of my early publications were horror or erotic horror.

As I’ve gotten older I’ve developed some problems when I write horror.

I am a major nerd. I geek out about minor things and often find I’ve lost the plot figuratively and literally.

I do this because I want to put more of my Blackness into my horror and tend to get way into reading about various African cultures. At one point while researching a story I found myself in a nerd spiral of doom reading about the culture of Free people in NOLA at various periods of time, Octoroon balls. I developed a pretty literate understanding of the history and lost my story.

I’m thinking of this right now because I’m working on a horror story (that I’ve made copious notes for I’ll get to that in a minute) and I have been very careful about my use of lore and genealogy and hood life.

I think this stems from being so desperate to see my own reflection in horror.

For instance I fucking love vampires. I am an old Goth but really I do. At 8 years old I made a kid (I was really tiny, undersized for my age until puberty) I was afraid of leave me alone by telling him a story (cribbed a little from Salem’s Lot) that I was in fact a vampire and would turn his whole family if he kept bothering me. I had two freckles on my neck that made passable bite marks as proof and voila.

In all these years and all the movies and books every Black vampire was either a parody, badly written or just boring.

I have this deep burning lust to take the myth to Africa and fuck Europe.

I did it. A few years ago I finished Nanowrimo but not the book. It is in my hard drive. I again got lost in history. I rewrote history from the end of the Nubians or so up through present day. With the origins nestled in the mystery of pre-history in the Congo.

Right next door to this desire is of course my knowledge of the industry.

After some of the things I’ve seen and the shit I’ve seen people say, I don’t know if I could do all of that work and put so much of my heart into something and then have to deal with some of the racist ass people in the industry in key positions that would open doors.

The arguments I’ve had.

For instance I was briefly on a fantasy/Arthurian legend type message board. This was years ago but I’ve had similar experiences. Basically thinking, educated white people told me without hesitation that they could suspend their disbelief (as we fiction writers like readers to do) about dragons, magic, talking animals and whatnot but Black characters (historically accurate or not, yanno Moors and stuff) would break the spell.

It has happened to me so many times over the years and it’s exhausting and painful. As a reader it breaks my heart. I accept it because when I’m reading they aren’t my stories.

Being a person of color often means you have to develop a kind of sensitivity filter especially if you are like me and a lover of fantastical things. I have to deal with and try not to take things like this personally:

1. Magical Negroes.
2. Badly rendered “Black Speak” whether it be butchered AAVE or the inverse of the Black person who hates all things Black and must only speak “proper” English because they aren’t one of those negroes.
3. Alt histories where there are just no Black people at all, Black people are injected as servants or (oh HI Anne Rice) miraculously turned White.
4. Worlds where the noble white people must save the wretched Blacks from themselves.
5. Slavery portrayed as not all that bad including my literary kryptonite of the Mandingo fantasies or the exotic slave the slave owner never sees as human but somehow kinda loves and rapes er loves her.
6. Hypersexualized or totally desexualized Black people.

You get my point.

These are things that I have to deal with as a reader.

As a writer my view is fuck all that fucking nonsense.

As brave and steely as I seem to be about it, it still hurts. Understanding and knowing the things people could and would say to me about my Black vampires, sorcerers and their “savage” cultures. Understand what I’ve just said is not hyperbole. These are criticisms I have gotten from “peers” trying to “help”.

Again as I say every few months, double consciousness is a mother fucker.

I think to start um, wetting my feet I’ll get some of my old vampire stories a little shiny and put them up.

And I’m going to make this story I’m working on beautiful.

And I will put on my hardhat if I have to deal with bullshit.

That’s all for now. I’m done with my research for the night.