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.

 

 

Things I would like to be better at.

Before I get into that, guess what?

You can go buy the new issue of Thuglit with a story by yours truly inside, for kindle (which you can read on your phone or your pc or your actual kindle..fuck yeah technology) for just 99 cents dudes. You can get it in print too. Go check it out here and here’s a bite from my story:

Kiki the Killer was the kind of girl you saw in videos. Dark brown skin, a few scattered tattoos, long braids and a big, high, round, proud ass that she knew what to do with.

The four of them were as rapt as the rest of the crowd.
“Aw shit man, I’d hit that raw dog.”

Also let me mention that Todd did an amazing edit on that story. Another example of why I need a very good editor with a sharp eye.

Oh also if you visit my official author website, you can see all my new work. 

Okay.

While I will say that yes, my editing skills have improved by huge bounds over the years. I wish I was a better editor.  one of my problems is that (no I don’t want to talk about it in depth kthnks) I have a bit of a learning disability and at some point editing just gets too hard for me to do. Being that I did not have the opportunity to deal with it when I was a kid, I have learned to deal with it as best I can but sometimes y’all, some times I just can’t and it’s really frustrating.

Along with that, I do have very bad vision issues and occasionally when I’m overworking myself I plain just can’t see to properly edit.

Also something I can’t really do a lot about.

When I was teaching myself to edit, somehow I got the idea that I should slash and burn. No actually let me put it this way. I did not edit my work so much as I raped, pillaged and burnt it like some kind of conquering mother fucker with emotional problems.

Part of that habit came about because (as you have probably noticed) I am a wordy windbag. I always have been. I recall very vividly having adults tell me as a child that I had a bulky vocabulary and I was not afraid to flex it.  Then along came teachers who were very strict about word counts on things thus, the hack and slash was born.

I have since developed a system for editing. I write a thing, I put said thing away from 1 week to a month. I print out thing, read it on my commute home and make some minor adjustments. Do the best I can with my comma overuse and whatnot. Rinse repeat a few times until I feel like I’m ruining it then I put it away again and do another pass to fix editing burns and then with that done as best I can, I send it out.

So far I am actually pretty pleased with how far I’ve come in terms of dealing with my editorial issues. As they say, practice makes perfect.

Second thing.

I wish I could write on theme when I see one.

I’ve never functioned that way as an author and when I force myself to try, it sucks. However, that issue did birth my habit of having a stash of varied finished things. Occasionally, I see a theme and voila right there in my little folder(s) is just the thing.

Third.

I am working on this but I am still so fucking uncomfortable self promoting. See also my ridiculously terrible at crowd funding/asking for donations. I am so uncomfortable doing it.  Granted I am far better now. Once upon a time (maybe four years ago) I might have put up a link in my personal blog and sent a link to a few friends but that was it.  I am miles beyond where I was. This is one of those things that honestly I have to work really hard on. I have to brute force my way through feeling proud/embarrassed/like I’m being annoying to promote my work.

The point here is that sometimes I have to remind myself that I have come a long way from the days of my secret scribblings on paper that I often later burned or flushed. I have come a long way from crying into precious pint lit journals that I bought with saved up lunch money.

I wish I could go back and tell baby Shannon writer that she would get better. Some people would read her work and that it was okay to struggle and cry through it. It was okay. It felt terrible and was so fucking hard but, baby self it was worth it.

Now if y’all will excuse me.

OH wait no one more thing.

So if you tumblr you can follow this thing I made where I reblog/post visuals that I find inspiring. I honestly suggest doing something like this if you are a visually oriented type like I am. Right here. Enjoy!

My first Spec Fic publication.

I am so excited.

The little story that could, Calling Oshun is up at Expanded horizons now. Read it here.

I am extraordinarily pleased and excited about this particular publication for several reasons.

I wrote Calling Oshun a few years ago and workshopped it in a fairly casual manner.

The only real criticisms of the story weren’t really of the story or the structure, it was the use of an “esoteric” (read not White) deity.

Several writers and editors have at one point or another recommended I change it to a more known (Green or Roman) goddess to make the story “accessible”.

That was one of the first instances where I was told that in order to get a story published I would have to basically Whitewash it.

I was so frustrated and upset and hurt.

So I put the story away for a while.

I did do a version with a Greek Goddess and the story was ruined. I went back to the original and submitted it about 8 times before it got accepted. Some editors who sent personal rejections thought it was beautiful but not something their readers would “get”.

That is what I’m talking about when I talk about some of the frustrations of being a writer of color who writes about people of color.

This story was one of the first times I was angry enough to work to get it published without the Whitewashing and I must say I am very proud of myself. The editors over there got my point exactly and I was honestly almost in tears when I talked about it with one of the editors.

It is the first time I have felt that kind of deep gratification of my first instincts.  Being welcomed by other people of color and having that feeling of acceptance and understanding that is so rare in the literary world.

Once upon a time someone I really admire gave me the best writing advice I have ever gotten. He told me that my strength and success would be in writing the stories only I can tell in ways that only I can tell them.

So here is a tidbit.

“He is beautiful as fine polished ebony, his eyes closed his wide mouth stretched and magnificent, his voice transcends all. In his voice is the rumble of thunder from my long ago homeland:”

Head here to read the whole thing.

In other news I updated my website a bit. I still have to pull some out of print links off of it. I’ll probably reprint those stories here for free. I’ll be back next week to talk about some of the really good shit I’ve been reading lately, my erotic chapbook project and some other stuff.

 

 

Am I allowed?

I am very very tired. So please excuse anything overly obvious I say or that I may ramble more than usual.

I have been working on this little loosely themed collection of erotic/explicit/literary stories. All flash sized, between 250-1000 words.

As I’ve been doing these I have all these um, let’s say academic flavored thoughts about the purpose of what I’m doing. About what I am playing with and exploring not because I think it’s commercially viable (as in publishable) but because I need to walk the land and see what’s going on.

I was listening to Junot Diaz speak (I KNOW I am kind of obsessed ok, listening to him talk about writing and reading is very soothing to me)  and he said something about art and play and I had a boom holy shit moment.

This little nerdy thing I am doing is art.

This is my art.

Holy. Shit.

For as much as I believe other writers make art, Remittance Girl, M. Christian, etc etc they make art.  In my head everyone but me makes art and is an artist and that in my head is this big beautiful lofty thing.

It is a penultimate thing to me. The height of what makes me happy.

I haven’t ever been comfortable allowing myself to try and inhabit that place. the idea that I could be an artist or that anything I do writing, crocheting, photography etc could be art I get very anxious.

I feel nauseated and weird and generally like I am some fake ass dilettante or similar low rent poseur.

And then if I let myself think about it more I shut it down and tell myself to shut my shit mouth and get to work. I am a worker. I put my head down and get to it. I work/commute for 12 hours of my day and I go home and I fucking work.

I work.

Someone like me (poor, worker) can’t join the ranks of artists because in my head, artists are above. I am not up there.

I know that part of this is my upbringing, part of it is the depths of admiration I have for art. How much I value and respect everything I consider art.

I tell myself I can totally write and I can create and I am a creative person. I am a writer. Sometimes I think I’m a pretty good writer.

But I couldn’t consider anything I was doing art.

I wouldn’t say it.

I have had no problem personifying myself as the Rocky archetype or the laborer.  I know that my roach brain survives  I can work through everything (see me being so exhausted right now my hands are shaking but I’m at work) , My War by Black Flag is playing in my head. I am the Mother Fucker. I am a fucking Beast. I can’t be stopped.

Rawr. Flex. Be afraid.

the moment I think this is art, this is beautiful. I have a total fucking meltdown.

Okay so about a half hour ago or so I said to my best friend that my little dark end of limerence and playing with (fuck that word that starts with a J that I learned from Remittance Girl)- anyway this little thing I am doing is art.

it is my art.

It is me exploring these things. I am doing it.

Maybe because I am so tired, I don’t have the energy to put up the labyrinth in my head to let myself step out of the role I’ve assigned myself and just do my arty shit.

For me art does things. It hurts me, it makes me happy, it arouses me (yes sexually), it terrifies me, it makes me want to crap my pants, it makes me want to cry, it makes me think about it two weeks later,  I want to talk about it and chew on it.

These stories do that for me and I want to share them. Maybe they will do it for someone else.

I am making art.

It feels so strange but I want it to be okay. I want to hold my head up point at something I’ve done and be able to proclaim my artiness. If only to myself.

This is a new adventure.

Under the fold here, have a bit of one of the new things I’m working on from the collection.

At another time I might ask some questions for all however many of you read this. But not today. today I just want to enjoy feeling arty.

More thoughts and Duotrope frustrations.

I’m as usual doing some submitting this week and the story I’m working with right now is very firmly a lesbian story.

That being said, it is a longer piece for me and as I’m using Duotrope to look at magazines I’m running into the same issues I had earlier.

If I switch between general subject matter and GLBTQ subject matter in the search form I go from 1235 to 70.

I know that out of the 1165 magazines that don’t specify whether they take queer stories or not, there is probably one that would love this story. However, as I am looking through magazines and the stories are all White and hetero, I’m not going to submit.

Again, I call into question editors.

I’m honestly just so frustrated.

I’m exhausted.

I don’t want to be an editor, I don’t want to run a literary magazine. I just have no desire to do it so the do it yourself model just doesn’t work for me here.

Yes I know I can just send the fucking story and see what happens and that is normally what I do.

However, it is nice to see a welcome sign sometimes.

I don’t know if it is because I’m not feeling well in general and am thus more sensitive than usual but right now, as I’m trying to get my work done I just feel sad and not welcome.

Yes, guidelines can say that they welcome all sorts of things. Yes in the interview if there is one on Duotrope you can drop Toni Morrison or Junot Diaz’s names. But when I go back four or five issues and there’s nothing to indicate that an editor(s) have ever even seen a non white person, I don’t feel like any talk about the diverse stories a press or zine likes is actually true.

This is one aspect of using Duotrope that as I write more stories that are not taking place in the White Dude’s Literary Canon universe that just gets harder to deal with. I honestly don’t know how to parse how I feel.

I’m at a point where I don’t know what to do with the things that bother me so much.

I don’t know where to turn.

I’m tired and I want to cry.

Sometimes as I’ve said before I don’t want to be trail blazing.

I just want to have some folks read my stories and sometimes like them or want to talk about them.

I’m very frustrated and upset.

I wish I knew how to handle these feelings because I just don’t. I’m choking on them and that’s making the parts of writing that I cherish suck.

I just don’t know.

Other things that are not shit.

Okay so after my minor meltdown yesterday I’m okay.

I have almost enough money for my chromebook, I have to use part of it for shoes and food but whatever.

But guess what?

My good news is that I got a major deal in my life acceptance. My Oshun story will be in Expanded Horizons this month. Holy shit.

Holy. Shit.

This is my first spec fic type publication and to get it into a magazine that I have honestly been an enormous fan of for years now is pretty exciting.

I am so excited. I am really into this going on.

I will post the appropriate links when it’s time.

Officially in 2013 thus far I have made 80$ writing. 80 more than I made last year.

What else?

Right.

I honestly wish that living on the edge and poverty was actually romantic. The thing is, between worrying about my dayjob, my ever growing commute, finances I’ve had precious little emotional or mental or shit physical energy to write new things.

It’s so hard for me to feel okay enough to write anything quality when I am so worried about other things. Stress is a killer.

I try to write sometimes and all I can really do is try to work out ways of bringing in more money so if I need a new pair of shoes (I do right now) I don’t have to try and carve it out of our already tight budget.

I’m trying to be good to myself. I’m trying to not get sick because I honestly can’t be missing work right now. So I’m trying to calm down.

I’m trying to not let myself not get the stupid chromebook because I need a new pair of shoes and my partner needs new shoes and we both need lightweight spring coats. I don’t know. Writing is so important to me but, because I have as of yet been unable to keep myself in new shoes and coats with it, I feel like I can’t give it as much as it needs.

Some days even when I have a success, I still feel like everything on the planet that I like or am interested in, is there only to remind me that I’m too poor to play and it’s hurtful.

Not just hobbies and shit.

Basic shit like, saying hey my shoes are worn out and hurt my feet, maybe I should buy new ones.

Poverty that one is not playing at, that can’t be put away or solved with a call to Mummy and Daddy is really hard.

Hopefully things will straighten out enough that the choke hold will loosen up so I can write more freely.

That’s all for right now.

Goodnight.

When life shits on your plans.

So for the last year or so I’ve made a habit of working (writing) from about midnightish when I get home from my dayjob until around 2.

I am not a good sleeper anyway and had found a balance.

Unfortunately because I rely on public transportation and my local public transportation is getting more unreliable, I have to cut my writing time down to maybe an hour at night.

I’m so sad right now. I have no other options and because writing is not the job the pays the bill, it’s the thing that gets cut.

And I still don’t have a laptop so I can’t squeeze in serious work before the dayjob.

I feel like I worked so hard to carve out that time and have been doing good things with it.

Now I’m failing because I can’t drive, can’t afford to have a vehicle and live in the fucking hood.

I have had the same dayjob for  more than a decade but I can’t afford to live in the neighborhood where I work.

We can’t afford to move for a while. It’s going to be a huge few thousand dollar layout because I have shitty credit.

And the one thing that means everything to me, I have to sacrifice time devoted to it.

Too many of these things are out of my control. It’s putting rust on something really awesome that happened over the weekend writing related. I’m so frustrated by things that are out of my control or simply incredibly difficult and just barely in my grasp.

I started this really early today and I’m still out of sorts.

Righty right.

Tomorrow I will come post some really awesome news. Today I’m just going to continue to feel poor and sad.