Seriously I am on that grind this week. I’ve been writing like hell.
I’m trying really hard to figure out how to balance all the things I want to do and make a little bit of cash in the process.
Shit is fuckin hard y’all.
In other news I am plowing my way through a superb reading list. I’ll have some new reviews up soon.
Um whoa so this happened. Aside from being in excellent company it really touches me that my sort of off the cuff I want to write something today post made sense.
Over the years I’ve come from skipping meals to buy Poets & Writers or to buy “good” quality typing paper and renting time on ancient PCs at Kinko’s and shit to sometimes making a little money, learning how to unsubscribe from the fancy monied author mythos.
I have had to do a lot of stuff that has been hard. Figuring out how to balance my ethics with my need to eat. For instance when I opened my etsy store I had a rash of weird White dudes wanting 3$ Cuckold interracial porn. I’m talking dudes wanting like 10K words with these shortass turnarounds.
Once upon a time I would have done it. Enough 3 buck porns could someday buy me lunch or shoes.
I had to sit with it and do what other authors I’ve seen do. I had to set some rules and after a lot of self flagellation (How DARE YOU turn down actual income) and struggle I did this:
If you are looking for custom erotica here are the rules.
1.) My rate is firm at 25$ a page. This includes a first draft, final edit. Put together with a plain cover and available as a pdf/doc/docx file.
2.) I am not heterosexual. I will write hetero but it is not my forte.
3.) Do NOT send/offer to send me photos of your genitals I will ban you.
4.) No, I will not barter.
5.) No incest, underage, bestiality will be considered.
6.) If I am not into the idea I will not take the commission.
7.) If you want a sample of my work, buy one.
Currently I am not looking for/accepting custom work. When I am I will post a special listing.
Honestly y’all. Do you now how hard that was for me to do? To really put down in words that I will not suffer foolishness and that my porn is worth professional rates?
That started me on a path to wanting to Free myself with freelance work. I started grinding out research and things and realized that some parts of a freelance career are just not things I do well. Aside from that, I just don’t want to write for some pulications who would probably take me.
Pump the mother fuckin breaks.
I honestly had weeks of arguing with myself about it because as we know, there is a lot of pressure for especially WOC to go be in ALL the things and break through the whiteness of certain markets and everything.
I have been just, fighting with my desire to earn that money and those thoughts. The what right do I have to not want those opportunities?
What kind of nerve do I have when I need money for shit like shoes and underwear, to not want to take the full leap?
WHO THE FUCK IS YOU.
And then I keep thinking about things my publisher Milcah has said to me. I keep thinking about what we’re doing with the book at Self Care Like A Boss. I think about what my best friend has been saying for almost 20 years. About when my partner is just like YES DO THAT SHIT.
I think about the authors I love the most and how many of them joke about low book sales and write shit that moves me.
I am the writer who write really fucking terrible copy for really fucking terrible heteronormative sex toy anon/affiliate websites because I wanted to save up for shoes.
I am also the writer who has turned down some amazing opportunities because they would make me feel bad in my heart.
I am book pregnant with the best book baby daddy Milcah.
Way back when I was about 14 and dreaming about being an infamous writer, I dreamed about a life of liesure paid for by literary patrons.
I thought that was how I wanted it.
Looking back I realize that I would not be a bad ass writer right now without the struggle. If I had no struggle, if I didn’t have to write out all these fuckin feelings, if I hadn’t spent SO much time poring over literary magazines I couldn’t afford and low er
I would not cherish the lessons I learn from the books I buy.
If I wasn’t struggling with shit a lot, I don’t honestly think I would be so comfortable with how I am figuring out what my work is worth and who I want to work with.
One thing that goes through my bones is that easy doesn’t teach me well. It never has. If I didn’t have to work shit out I would not work it out.
I am on that grind.
I AM ON THAT MOTHER FUCKING GRIND and unlike when I was a baby writer, I value it. I love it. I am here for it.
Being ass deep in the struggle means I have found the path to my people. And I love my people. My people love me.
And that is pretty valuable.
OH okay a few more things.
I put up a story that is so close to my heart I can’t even. It is a slipstream story involving a wee Haitian girl and Hati and his brother. There is magic, the beginning of my need to explore how cultures can intersect, collide combine and exist together without throwing the brown folks under the bus. It is a bit more expensive than other stuff because of the sheer amount of work it took for me to get it done.
Here is a big ole taste:
“Mama was hurt, Papa was dead. She gave me water in a bottle and papers in my bag. Then she told me to run. She said I was too small and that they would hurt me. She said, Bernadette, you run you hide girl. Hide, hide hide.”
She trailed off, the counselor waited her out.
“I ran. Like a woof-”
The counselor arched an eyebrow.
“A woof? You mean a dog?”
Bernie glowered at her.
“No, woof, you know woof they howl like this at the moon.”
Bernie tipped her head back and let out a full throated mournful howl.
“That is what I say. And then I found a place under concrete it was dry.”
[redacted, go buy for more]
It was a drawing from a Norse myth, the librarian smiled at her and nodded.
“Would you like to read about Hati?”
Bernie nodded, her eyes lit up.
In her heart, she chanted to the Universe, Ayti, Ayti Ayti. In her heart Bernie was mourning Haiti, the way her Maternal Grandmother had taught her. To think and feel the name of a thing or a person so as not to forget. She could not bring herself to sing the names of her parents, that hurt too much. But, when she spoke Ayti, Ayti, Ayti in the secret voice of her heart, it sufficed.
Next week I will get into how this story came about, that it was inspired by Roxane Gay and a woman I met on the bus.
Okay this is way too long I need to calm all the way down and go do some editing.
OH also per usual this is not kid or ya lit. This is grown folks business.