Category Archives: writing life

20 Years.

I realized a few days ago that as of next month, I have been trying to get published/getting published for 20 years.

20 years.

My first publication (I lied) I was 17 and it was a long angsty poem about an older lesbian with auburn colored armpit hair and a very sweet smile.

While I am so full of angst about trying so hard to figure out where my work fits in with the literary world, I’m taking a minute to remember back then.

It was the mid 90s and when I could afford it I would buy copies of Poets and Writers or I would sit with them at the library and copy the names and addresses of literary magazines. I would then go to my high school (while I was in high school that is until 95) computer lab and furiously type up poems and stories in secret. This was of course after weeks or months of rewriting on paper.

Nobody ever really wrote back. I remember crying because I’d spent a quarter of a paycheck my senior year on having nice paper, envelopes and postage. With SASE and nobody wrote back to tell me no even.

That first published poem I submitted under a pen name I told nobody about. I was ashamed and proud. Ashamed because I didn’t feel like I was allowed to be a writer. I should have done better in school, I should have had a better body, I should have been a better daughter, a better person.

I had one little copy of the print zine, I had gone downtown Seattle to Left Bank Books and bought it for a quarter. I may have whispered (I was very shy) to the guy at the register that I wrote a poem in it, or I might have imagined that.

After that when I could afford it I bought literary magazines. Or I bought Poets and Writers. I tried really hard to write what I thought people would want to publish.

I wrote, I cried. I obsessed.

I remember having this obsession with Muses and the nature of them. I wrote about shoveling coal into a furnace. I wrote about my Muses getting naked and fucking each other in my head.

I masturbated while reading Henry Miller and On Our Backs.

I had the seeds of what would later become my love of writing weird syncretic mythologies.

I wrote observational freewrites while I sat on the sidewalk outside of Nordstrom Rack at 6 AM waiting for a but home.

I wrote about a boy who smelled of sweaty boys skin, leather and smoke. I slipped it into his pocket and walked away.

I did not get published in print again for a few years.

At one point I “retired” from trying to be a writer. I was living hard scrabble with a friend, working a minimum wage office job and doing phone sex. I had my first foot fetish for pay thing. I let a man give me money for looking at my cunt.

I started feeling incredibly crazy. I started to journal again and as I listened to men jerking off on the phone I started to learn how to write erotica. I wrote little stories about Puppy training and humiliation. I learned about forced feminization and how much I wanted to do those things.

At the same time I was reading amazing Queer erotica and had a terrible crush on Patrick Califa.

I wrote.

I did not tell a soul. No one.

A while later I got internet access. I found other writers. I posted on Literotica, I posted on other websites. My dear friend Anthony posted my first finished horror erotica piece in his print magazine.

I got paid to write lesbian erotica.

I got lectured by an editor not to be so Queer in the work I was going to be paid to write for him. Not because I did that but because he read my personal sex blog. That was the first time I stood up for myself and my writing to an editor.

I wrote and saved my work on floppy disks I carried in a tiny purple accordion looking thing. I lost work. I cried. I hated computers.

I learned how to submit things via email.

I wrote.

I wrote so much.

I got rejected a lot.

I got published sometimes.

Now in the last ten years I started to stop giving a fuck about what I thought people want to publish. My writing has changed and become something far more indicative of the writer. I stopped forcing myself to adhere to Whiteness. I get published a bit less often.

Around four years ago I made the decision that even if it means I will never have “commercial” success, I will talk about racism in the industry and name names when I need to. I will talk publicly about my experiences and how I feel about them.

I decided to publish things myself even though I’ve been told it will ruin me. I published imperfect work that I am proud of because I made it and I have learned from it. I am not ashamed of that. I have (don’t ask me how) made myself a small niche where I feel good. I feel like I am doing this shit on my fucking terms and it is okay.

Sometimes I am still pretty scared that I will never be published again because I like being published. On the other hand, some days I don’t give a hot fuck.

I write.

I am still doing this and I believe in myself.

I feel good about the shit I write that gets rejected by everyone because it’s not absolutely perfect or because it’s not a “story story” or it’s too dirty for literary magazines, or it is not racial uplift.

It is painful sometimes but I am still doing the damn thing.

Sometimes I help some people.

Sometimes I make people really angry.

Sometimes the scribbles in my notebook are poetry to me and I feel like I’ve shown a bit of my soul even if every editor hates it.

So 20 years in the industry, no fame, no fortune.

20 years and hardly anybody knows who I am and that is okay.

I feel like I am right where I am supposed to be.

Happy Anniversary me.

Happy fucking anniversary.


On Feels, decisions and shit I find questionable.

I have a little stash of micro/flash fiction sitting around and as I am thinking about submitting it I keep running into things.

For one, when I write flash fiction apparently something I like to do is to play with conflict that is outside of the Western literary idea of what plot is.  I didn’t even really realize it until I read this.

The problem is that 90% of the rejections I have gotten for these stories (especially the ones that are completely outside of Whiteness in an explicit way) is that they are not understood, that the readers don’t “feel” anything, that some of my references to Black culture both past and present are not understood. Etc.

The other problem is that as far as magazines for POC go, I feel out of place because a lot of my writing is dark as fuck and a lot of those magazines strive for uplift. I understand that philosophically but, personally I feel like the odd kid out.

As I get older I keep finding myself in this position with the shit I like to write. Too much that is too sexually explicit or says fuck too much for the literary minded, but that is not quite erotica.

Drugs, whores, badly behaved queers, POC narratives that are not pain porn but are also not racially uplifting, hood life that is not the scare all the white people or eventual escape from the hood stories.

I dunno.

I have a cache of things that are just not really what I see in the market. And even though sometimes editors really like them, they just don’t fit anywhere.

That being what it is I’m still really hesitant about writing a novella, or putting together a proper chapbook, or really digging into the horror stories I have been working on.

Granted I could self publish everything but honestly I just don’t have the energy to really devote to that level of I don’t give a fuck.

On one hand I feel like when I was told to write the stories I want to read I took that and am running with it. I am marathoning the fuck out of that.

On the other hand, while I’m running with it I’m seeing fewer and fewer promising leads on being published. I like being published. I like people other than the people I know seeing my work.

I don’t know how to feel or what to do with myself and my shit.

What really trips me out is that my non fiction, not essays but article type things are finding homes and shit. People like them and I like that. I like helping people and it feels really good but that isn’t all I want to do.

Is this some kind of writer leveling up shit?

I don’t know or understand how to navigate my own feelings about it. I keep alternating between sad and rage.

Okay here is what I know:

  • I am not going to purposefully censor myself or what I’m writing.
  • I am working on not tying my sense of identity as a writer to the publishing industry at large.
  • I am not one story. I am multitudes. (See here for reference).
  • I may not know what the fuck I am doing but I am doing it.

Okay I feel a little better and I have a fuckload of writing to do.

/end bleating.


New Things

So my first article at XOjane went live over the weekend and you can read that here.

I also have a kink essay to finish, a new article for Luna Luna to get ready and more for XOjane.

Now while I am really into these non fictional someone likes me (OH MY FUCK YOU LIKE ME) things happening something else has happened that I’m not so about.

So I’ve written about it, meditated about it, steamed about it.

I feel like this is a level up moment.

The thing is I am really fucking angry but beyond being angry I just-

okay I just don’t understand WHY the need to make shit personal about me when I didn’t make it personal about you.

Fuck.

These are the kind of mother fuckers I can’t fuck with. if you can’t be grown enough to say, I don’t like you and then hear, well I don’t like you either and we go our separate ways. I am not the droids you are looking for.

I have shit to do that does not involve trying to negotiate feeling victimized and then consequently really angry every fucking day.

As a dear dear friend guided me a couple of years ago, when my guts are churning I’m going in the right direction.

So with my new non fiction I’m putting my head down and coming through like a tweaked out train.

I am not here for other people’s bullshit.

Okay I had to get that out.

Later this week I have some other announcements. AND really if y’all could swing through the etsy store and maybe drop a few bucks I’d be delighted. I’m trying desperately to save up enough via my writing to buy a new phone because mine is failing and I do not feel safe commuting without my phone.

Thank you.

OH and before I go here how about some stuff to read that I am really excited about right now.

First, Tannarive Due has a new story at Lightspeed and I freaked out. GO read it or listen to it right now.

This piece by Rebecca Carroll at XO is hella relevant to my life right now and I want you to read it.

My dear friend Anna March wrote this piece in Salon. It is about the Pope and save your sanity stay out of the comments.

Another love of my Dena Rash Guzman wrote this about monoculture in farming at Stir.  Read it.

Actually here, that whole Lightspeed issue is fucking great so you should read or listen to all of it.

Literary Orphans got a good nod in Poets and Writers so check that out here.

Solarcide is expanding and has a new release out. Go check them out I’m pretty into it.

And you should check out the new issue of Flapperhouse.  I have it and I am into it.

Okay now I have a lot of work to do and should eat food because I’m a grown up.


A Love Letter to Antonia Crane

So we know I adore Antonia but this will be a combo review and love letter.

I’m having a very emotional week for a lot of reasons and I just finished reading Spent: A Memoir.

Wow.

Okay first of all the hardback is really physically beautiful. For my fellow tactile book nerds, the cover has this beautiful artwork and is glossy. It feels nice under the finger tips and the little half dust cover is gorgeous.

And then you open it and start reading.

As soon as you start reading, you realize that this memoir is not tidy. It is not full of sunshine and flowers. It is not a story of a woman who dabbled in the dark and ran from it. While I was reading I was thinking of Antonia’s big beautiful smile and the prior readings of her words and I fucking got it.

You can see in her work that there is a sparkle in her eye and a knowing that you’re going for a ride.

In this book Antonia does not pretend.  She is naked in a way that is so important to me when I read memoir by other women especially sex workers and others who have been through it.

I personally cannot connect to women’s writing that sticks to the sunny and immediately redemptive. I can’t connect emotionally or (in my case) want to sit down and talk to a person who peers into the dark and skips away unscathed.

Antonia got scathed.

She wrote that shit like her life depended on it and even though I don’t know her super well, I’m going to assume her life did depend on it.

Now, I have been waiting for this book since the first time I saw her writing way back on The Rumpus. She had no book deal and I (sorry Antonia if I got creepy) followed her around the internet to get sips of her words. Even from the bits and bobs I read, I knew here is one of my people.

There is a power for me in coming across women who however they do it just take my heart. How they talk to and about other women. Certain styles of sex work writing. There are let’s call them (forgive my woowooness) vibes I get that make my say yes.

Now let’s talk about sex work memoir as a genre.

Back when sex bloggers/workers were the it thing in publishing and I was a semi sex blogger myself, there was a big explosion of shiny books written by madams, hookers, strippers etc.

For me during that time up through now the genre itself was lacking. I read them in a fairly greedy manner and after two or three I realized that the predominant narrative was fairly standard.

A lot of those stories were either handjobs to redemption and ‘saving’ from a illicit life. The heavy handed I AM FEMINIST THEREFORE I DO WHAT I WANT, the pretty White girl going to college and venturing into stripping to boost her self esteem etc.

The tragic was covered, the Red Shoe Diary salacious type semi stroke material.

What was missing to me was the grit. I have known and loved many sex workers in the last (I’m gonna round it out) 15 years give or take. From a beloved crack whore who taught me incredibly valuable life lessons, to peep show workers, strippers, high cost escorts and in talking to a lot of them and living some of it myself when I did a bit of sex work back in the day, the struggle in those stories was missing.

There was often the struggle to reconcile religious or feminist beliefs with sex work but not the how the fuck am I gonna pay my rent, how the fuck do I get out, where do I go from here type narrative.

A lot of sex work memoirs are designed more to give the reader a sense of satisfaction at the end that while sex work is glamorous and full of money and presents, it’s way better to retire gracefully into wifedom or something.

That doesn’t do it for me as a reader or as someone who has not really seen that happen.

Antonia’s book is full of the grit. Her writing is silky and funny, it is rough and gut wrenching but it is not glossy. There is terror. The way she writes about her Mother’s illness and death is going to haunt me.

That is why I love her and her work. I honestly cannot stand writing that seems too shiny. When people write about terrible things but there is a everything turns out in the end gloss. I have a thing about that.

This is not a Red Shoe Diary stroke memoir.

It is sexy but not fap material.

This is real and raw.

Antonia’s work is naked and glorious.

Spent is the kind of book I will return to because writing that is so full of power and beauty moves me. It makes me feel at home. It makes me feel a sense of community when I feel like I’m drowning in suburban bundt cakey blandness.

I am so deeply terribly thankful that I found Antonia’s work.

So before I start blubbering.

This book is fucking fantastic and I absolutely recommend it.

I fucking love Antonia Crane.

If you get a chance to see her read or take a class with her do it and tell her I sent you.


Random Writing Angst.

I’m full of angst today.

Writing angst.

I have been jotting down little bits of fiction. I am worried that the time I took to finish V2.0 did something averse to my fiction. This particular angst fueled by the fact that nobody likes my flash fiction but me.

Add in a lot of good rejections, the ones that say good writing/powerful writing but not for us.

I’m having not good enough feels.

These angsts are also fucking with my sleepy ambition to finish my novella. I have many notes and about 2000 words of it written. And then I stop. I think about what if I lose what little momentum/being known I have, will I have to start the fuck over?

I’ve been reading some really great chapbooks and novellas.

Who the fuck would buy mine?

As new writing opportunities come in,I get scared that the editors who believe in me will be disappointed.

I’m feeling stuck in a little fear bubble.

What if the last two years were as good as I get?

But really the thing that freezes my fingers is the idea that I won’t be able to live up to my own expectations of my work.

I work so hard I don’t want to disappoint myself.

My ambitions have moved from being publication based to craft based. I want to make my ideas live and sometimes I am very disappointed that I can’t do it the way I want it.

I hope my feels are hormonal and I will stop being so angsty.

I keep hearing Lil Jon yelling in my head,

YOU SCARED

YOU SCARED

YOU SCARED MOTHA FUCKA YOU SCARED

From one of my favorite Ice Cube Songs Go To Church.

Maybe I’m feeling a bit too tender to get gangster with myself as I usually do.

Maybe I should calm my shit down for a minute. Write some writer business emails and then hide in a bubble of background noise and just fucking write.

Write like a mother fucker.

Write the stories.

Stop feeling some type of way self. Make a pot of tea, eat your sushi and fucking write.

Take a deep breath.

Okay.

Also before I forget my new piece is up at Luna Luna. The second part of my series addressing White Ladies.

 


A Meditation on Why my Work is “Exclusionary”

So last night some dude went through a lot of this wee blog and then a lot of my work.

Brought in by searching a porny term.

So Dudebro was upset by my work and after a long time (also a note, I use stat counters and I know how to examine my logs) he sent me a lengthy hand spank of a note to explain to me that my work is Exclusionary.

Ahem.

And because said Dudebro was not Dude enough to use a valid email address here is my response.

After reading a bunch of my posts here and referencing things I have said about Whiteness and Dude Whiteness he said:

 

You will never be successful if you continue to exclude people like me based on race. You are note practicing what you preach and should examine your motives.

Short answer is fuck you, fuck your mother, fuck your dog and fuck your cow.

Long answer.

Given that Dudebro demonstrated a superficial understanding of social justice flavored terminology let me break it down for you real simple like.

Everything in the fucking world is geared for you hetero White Dudebro.

Literary canon, SF/F, TV, Advertising everything.

In case you missed it either on my Author page or any number of things you read, I am not a White person.

That being what it is, I have made a serious conscious decision not to write to cater to you.

You can kiss the entirety of my fat Black ass with your condescension and racist sexist shit. Take your “discomfort” and jam it far enough up your ass to tickle your prostate. If my “success” (I can only read that as meaning having Dudebros like yourself buying my work) depends on you, I’ll take epic spectacular flaming failure.

You do not own everything. I realize that the state of affairs in the world might lead you to think otherwise. I understand that everything up until you found my little corner of the internet whilst looking for some porn with tiny asses, reinforces the notion that you are entitled to have everything cater to you.

My bit of work is not for you.

If you can’t enjoy something that is not made specifically for someone like you or outside of your own experience I am not for you.

There are forty seven billion other people you could read.

There are millions of other people you could spend hours running down and bothering.

Get the fuck out of my yard with that bullshit.

So everybody else.

This is why it can be hard to get a hold of me on the internet. I am fairly certain that because I am not internet or otherwise famous, and am clearly just one indie author toiling away in relative obscurity I make a good target.

I am in as far as publishing goes a bit of a vulnerable position.

I appear to be in the place where if I wanted to really be accepted by Whiteness and Dudebros like this, I would really need to watch what I say and take in this type of “criticism”.

I’m not.

I don’t give a hot fuck.

I am 37 goddamn years old.

I have dealt with a lot of shit.

I have no real fear from random assholes who are so brave to battle the evil SJW who has the audacity to tell Whiteness and men no. I did not freak out when the dude a few weeks ago threatened to dox me and “ruin my writing career”. I did not freak out and backtrack because this Dudebro felt hurt that my work does not reflect his idea of what the world is.

So can we make it official.

I don’t give a fuck if anybody really believes that the way I survive in the literary world means I am not trying to impress every Dudebro that searches for fap material on the internet.

I don’t give a fuck if every Dudebro ever is hurt because my worlds, my work, does not reflect their world.

I do not give a fuck if after said fapping, the Dudebro feels weird because the story was kinda gay.

I do not give a fuck if this means that the publishing world decides it doesn’t want me.

Seriously.

I keep saying it.

So officially.

Dox me, show up at my fucking house and I will call you an ambulance.

Call my employer and tell them what a big ole nasty freak I am and I’m sure our lawyers will have a talk with your local PD about harassment.

Do not come for me because I don’t write for you. If you don’t like it, shut this shit down and move the fuck on.

Do not come for me because it gives you a woody to tell off the SJW.

Do not come for me because you have a weird kinda gay boner.

Do not come for me asking for free fap material. This epussy is too expensive for you.

Leave me alone.

It’s not that hard.

Further communication from this Dudebro or any others who don’t like all my Blackness, Queerness or not here for your shitness will be ignored and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.


Liebster Award

I got tagged by the folks from Hessian With Teeth (which is a great fucking name by the way) so here we go.

First 11 things about me:

  1. One of the reasons I have not yet finished a novel is that I am afraid I can’t do it. I’m working on it.
  2. I really love bugs. I am very into insects because when I was a tween I read a book with a forensic entomologist and have been obsessed since. My favorites are moths of varying species, very large beetles and Madagascar Cockroaches. I love them all so much I plan to get insect themed tattoos on my chest.
  3. I am very into beauty and make up. I love wearing, writing about, researching and wallowing in it. Between you and I was not interested until I figured out how to deal with beauty ideals on my own terms. In other words I figured out fuck em. I have my own ideas about beauty and will indulge myself as I see fit.
  4. We know I’m deep into self care. For me it is a means of survival and I try to treat myself like a fucking queen at every opportunity.
  5. I also really fucking love sharks. Shark week is the best week on TV and I NEEDED megalodon to be real. Like I squee like a cracked out five year old when I see anything about sharks. See this meme I tend to yell that at the tv when shark shows are on: shark
  6. I not so secretly kind of melt/shutdown when really good things are going/happening I get really scared and I want to curl up like a potato bug and freak out. I”m trying to not but it’s hard.
  7. I am a musical fanatic. I listen to a whole lot of music and I can nerd out about musical things for hours. My favorite is connecting music with influences and stuff.
  8. When I am sad or uncomfortable or otherwise need to soothe myself I sing. I love to sing and sometimes have a nice voice. Taking voice lessons to learn to sing properly is on my bucket list. I am a natural tenor and like to sing swing music the most. Although I dream of having a big balls metal voice
  9. I am really very into the idea of living in a large space but I don’t actually want to own property.
  10. Most of the TV I watch is murder. Forensics shows, murdery mystery, recreations. I dunno why but I find it soothing.
  11. Holy shit I’m bad at these.

Now onto their questions.

ur questions for them are:

1) What convinced you to start blogging?

I started blogging a really long time ago. First just for fun and to write down my adventures. And then in the last I dunno six years or so I’ve used blogging as a way to learn how o write non fiction.

2) Do you volunteer? For what cause and why?

I suppose my other blog is volunteerism. I do it because I care about folks. I don’t have the spoons to do a lot of in person stuff but I do what I can for stuff like body politics, sex ed, I will pass along beneficial information to people and stuff.

3) Do you consider yourself an activist?

Yes.

4) What is your favorite genre to read?

JEEZE uh. I don’t actually have one. I go through moods where I read one obsessively until I need a break. Currently I’m reading a lot of memoirs and fantasy.

5) Who is your favorite author and what is your favorite book by them?

I have a lot of favorites. I reread a lot of Selby.

6) If you could spend the day with any well-known figure (alive or dead), who would it be and why?

Uh.  I am not sure. NEXT QUESTION.

7) What truths, if any, do you hold as self evident? Why?

I believe that the world can be better because it has to be.

8) Do you attend any conferences? If so, which ones any why?

I went to my first one this year. It was way more intense than I expected and I had a series of massive panic attacks, almost pooped my pants (YAY anxiety) but I did a reading and it was great. I also met Roxane Gay and she was super nice to me. I sort of stared at Kyle Minor and then ran away. I met some folks, I did an anonymous postcard exchange, I won some swag and came home with a bag full of journals and things. And a free pen from Cimarron Review and they were very nice. I am hoping to try it again better prepared.

9) What is your dream job?

Writer, freak (as in body modded weirdo), oddities collector, maker.

10) If you could change one thing about the world, what would it be?

I would make it easier to get people to use their critical thinking skills and understand context.

11) If you could make a movie, what would it be about and who would be in it?

I would like to make a horror movie with an all POC cast and my own version of the vampire mythos.

~

Okay I’m not tagging people cause I”m a rebel and I’m nursing a migraine hangover.

Other folks should do these.

Um.

OH righty right. I need to get grinding on submissions I only have three out right now and that feels funny to me. I’m ready.

Later I’m gonna talk about some really amazing stuff.

So go do stuff. Answer these questions in the comments with links and stuff.

GO GO GO.

Also head over to my etsy shop (link in the sidebar on your right) and buy stuff. Baby needs some new holes in her face.


So many things.

So I wrote a thing and Lisa over at Luna Luna magazine published it.

In a matter of about ten minutes after I posted it I was inundated with angry White Lady Tears.

And then while I was on my way to work I dropped my protein/snack bar thingy, I lost one of my beloved 8g steel swan earrings AND I am having major sinus issues right now.

On the other hand.

I got a book in a book giveaway, the other responses to my piece at Luna Luna have been fucking awesome. Lisa made me feel super welcome and I can’t explain how much I appreciate that.

Self Care Like a Boss V2.0 is about set to launch tomorrow and I am SUPER excited about what I have done.

Someone I admire a lot who does not internet a whole lot, said some stuff about my work last night that just- y’all. I sat at my desk at work trying to fight back tears while beautiful things were being said to me and it was great.

I’m a little overwhelmed that really great writing things are going on, that is just part of my personality.

So to keep myself from having a melt down or panic attack (WHO the fuck has happiness panic attacks? I have had enough of myself right now) I am going to do the finishing bits on V2.0. Get the cover ready. Write up the listing.

And okay here are some links.

Y’all know I love me some Mensah and he has teamed up with Literary Orphans for an all Black issue of LO. Go check out the call black folks. No I’m serious. Lynx and a few others of you I know are lurking. GET ON THAT. Also FYI the background of this page moves around and there is an autoplay so be prepared.

Go listen to this interview with the magnificent Antonia Crane.

Um okay that’s all for right now I have so much work to do and my face hurts.

Later taters.


On Gut Wrenching, blogging and whatnot.

Lately I feel like the gut wrenching has taken over my creative life.

I feel like pain and awful have eclipsed too much.

I said this on facebook a bit ago but sometimes the things I am moved to write just hurt my heart.

So I’m going to not do that right now.

I just (see over here) wrote my contribution to the #yesallwomen tag and it honestly burned. It hurts. I don’t want to anymore. Saturday I kind of proverbially ran around the internet looking for relief. Babies, puppies, fashion, shoes, boobs, things written by women I love. I felt like I was just grabbing at every straw of non awful I could find.

I felt panicky and manic about it.

I feel better today.

Today I wrote my thing and then I spent about fifteen minutes clearing hate messages from this wee blog, my youtube channel etc. I’m settled down with tea and threatened my friend Mensah with my aggressive hugging attack.

Hey Hessians, I will do the thing tomorrow.

Right now I want to remember how to roll around in goodness.

I had a really great talk with a very old friend about some of my recent new work.  He’s known me and my work for (holy shit) almost 20 years and the fact that without me asking he talked to me about the change in the tone and scope of my work made me feel really great. There is something so valuable to me to have peers who have that kind of overview.

I have also talked with my wifey and thought heavily about what are my goals?

I want to figure out how to balance the tear my guts out non fiction with lighter less angst filled non fiction.

I want to get back to writing the kind of horror I like to read.

I want to work out how I feel about mainstream publishing and swinging for the fences in regard to where I try to get published.

I have been working really hard. I have started a practice of keeping notes on things I want to write about when they occur to me. I’m writing more in my paper notebook. I’m reading a bit more widely and I’m remembering to nurture what I am good at and what makes me feel like I am doing something as a writer.

I am working very hard to nurture myself to the next point rather than bully myself.

It’s kinda working.

Okay now I am off to start getting V2.0 really together and to read some things that make me feel good. I suggest you go do the good thing for yourselves as well.


Things I should be writing about and whatnot.

I’m finally over that ass destroying cold and my insomnia has returned.

It has settled in my face which is twitching right now.

I am tired and hostile.

My solution to this was (even though it is really too warm out) wear one of my favorite outfits. See the bottom half below.

 

ootd

What you can’t see is that my boots are glittery.

I love this outfit because it has been known to upset people because I have big ass jiggly thighs. It’s not flattering in a way they like.

I love it.

I like how my flesh moves in these thin ass leggings. I like how my butt looks in them.

So that is how I cope.

I’ve also been taking copious late night notes about things I have on my mind to write about.

  1. I have been making notes about how my brain processes language. I am no longer fluent in other languages but there are certain common words that I struggle to remember in English and I forget that not everyone knows them so when I use them, someone always asks what the shit I just said and I have to google or ransack my brain to remember. I find it very interesting and it feels comfortable to me.
  2. I am writing about things that matter to a Black woman’s body. Feelin my self, twerking for lots of reasons that don’t include the white gaze.
  3. Body modification as a means to fulfilling my dreams of being a little old Evil Alien Queen when I am 80.
  4. My life long love of freaks and want to be a freak. As in freakshow type freak.

There’s more but I’m tired.

I am so close to done with V2.0.

I really hope people find it helpful.

~

I started this last night. I feel a bit better.

My shoe is full of giant pitbull puppy drool and I’m okay with that.

One of the other things I am inspired to write about today is how fragile White women are when a Black woman shows any kind of pride or love in her blackness. Brought to you by me wearing my Black Girls are Magic teeshirt today and having White women look at me like I farted in their faces which, would have been better.

So lots to write about.

Time to grind.

Baby needs money.

Last thing, I am pretty sure I’m getting my first lit related tattoo soon. I FINALLY found a fucking tattoo artist who a.) is into POC and has brown people in their portfolio and b.) could be my long term pain giver. I’m very excited but I need to make some extra monies so grind time.

This whole entry has been brought to you by lack of REM sleep and crankiness.


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