Sometimes people ask me questions that just get under my skin for various reasons.
Recently I submitted to a mag and a couple of weeks later one editor wrote back to ask what “program” I’m currently in. I said none. Another editor emailed to ask what school I’d gone to and I said none.
I haven’t heard a word back and this makes me feel paranoid and weird and vaguely stupid. I feel like I somehow invaded on sacrosanct ground that belongs onto to the holders of the MFA or to the pursuers of one.
That is kind of an issue for me.
So I might as well step into the paranoia spiral.
From this small exchange I think that either a.) the story was so awful that of course some noob freshman in college wrote it. The tiny story is actually a nice one. Then maybe b.) It is so brilliant I MUST have come out of one of the great writing programs. Even though I wouldn’t know one if it sat on my face and wiggled.
Also while we’re talking about questions that upset me. When people who have known me for years and have ever read even a single piece I’ve written asking me if I plan to write some kids books or romance novels.
Just..no. Don’t ask.
Editors who read something I’ve sent them, head to my website and see my big black face and then ask me about “urban” fiction…..
Sometimes I’m very tempted to remove my face from my website just to avoid that question. And then I don’t because I really can’t let piles of tiny bullshit make me fall down.
I feel vulnerable and naked like a baby mole or something right now. I’ve been writing hard things and well I feel fairly gutted.
I also got the most beautiful note from one of my readers of my personal blog. She said I saved her life.
I wish I could climb through the internet, take her in my arms and hug her until she farted. Then hug her some more.
This doesn’t entirely have a point. I have major writing to do today as I did fuck all this weekend.
Also the six of you who read this, expect quality photos of my other obsession. Crocheting.