Currently almost every bit of finished writing I have is out in the wild.
I have three pieces that are almost ready to be sent around and my essay project is about done.
During this time I’ve also been collecting my homeless fictions and those will be available for two bucks soon.
While I’m waiting for acceptances or rejections I spend a lot of time reading lit mags and writing little things. Just lately I’ve been getting a lot of unsolicited and plain bad writing advice.
Someone I “know” or rather who kind of sort of knows me and thinks it’s so cool that I write but who has (as will be clear in a minute) never really read a word I’ve written keeps sending me these ads for romance novels and YOU TOO CAN WRITE CHILDRENS BOOKS type things. He sends me “opportunities” that consist of little more than me paying money to do things I’m not interested in.
I do appreciate that he seems to care about my writing career but really?
While I don’t care what people write or if they like to read X thing I don’t give a shit. What I do give a shit about and feel slighted by is when people seem to have no concept of what I write and yet express some superficial “interest” in it.
I’d really rather you just not read my work at all.
I have quite a few friends who do not approve of smut at all and consequently often don’t read my work. I have friends who are squicked by violence so they don’t read my work. Those friends never pretend to have read it or be interested in it and it’s no big thing.
I realize that within the traditional frame of “success” yeah I’m failing really hard. I don’t make money doing this, nobody knows who I am, blablabla. I understand that for some people applying a very mainstream idea of how this writing thing is done is fine. Follow the formula, get published, make money rinse repeat.
That’s not really my jam.
I don’t want or need that particular flavor of thing to feel good about what I do.
I don’t want to buy lessons or classes in things I have no interest in and it feels disrespectful when people push that at me.
Don’t blow smoke up my ass. Don’t give me platitudes, don’t pretend you’re into it when you’re not. Doing that is like being in a shitty relationship. I don’t want it.
I’ve also been advised to not talk about certain issues on this here blog.
I was advised that “potential publishers” could read the things I’ve said about double consciousness etc and feel offended or whatever.
That made me angry. My initial reaction was fuck you and fuck you more.
Now I’m not angry.
To be frank if I can’t be published because I am public and open about my process (yes including the ugly parts and failures) what’s the point? I don’t feel in my gut that “success” is worth feeling like I have to be secretive and always put on a happy face. I’m not doing that.
I will not be a “successful” writer if it means I have to be silently miserable.
So there it is.
Now I’m yammering and I’m exhausted and I want to work on Coyote. Here’s a little bite.
Coyote padded around the room, sniffing and touching. She found a mirror in the small dingy bathroom and looked at her new body. Her hands followed her gaze; she lightly fingered the crinkles at the corners of her eyes and laughed.