Well it’s not for you.

My entry about being an Indie Superstar has gotten some interesting responses.

Some of these responses have been like some I’ve gotten through my personal blog, from writing groups I’ve been in over the years, in my life in general.

They are often trying really hard to be positive. They often cheer me on to ignore X issue (fatness, race, etc etc etc) and you know be free just do it.

They are the voices who told me in my first Fancy Grown Up Lady Writing Group that they were uncomfortable with my characters because they were drug addicts and the stories weren’t sunshine filled redemption stories with jubilant Hi My name is sections.

In friendly tones they told me how uncomfortable they were with the hookers and gleeful scumbags in my stories.

These are people who I am sure are perfectly nice and who read really great books and stories.

They just don’t need to read mine.

My response to most of these people has been, “well, its not for you.”

I don’t mean they can’t read and enjoy.

I mean I’m not writing for them specifically.

When I imagine an audience I imagine a girl like me, sitting out in the cold at 1 AM waiting for the very last bus home, trying to stay warm and smoke a cigarette.

I imagine a woman sitting sprawled on a filthy couch in a jack shack back room somewhere book in one hand soda in the other.

I imagine some dude bent over in an alley on a break from the kitchen, reading a torn up magazine with one story he really loves in it.

I imagine all of the queers, low lifes, weirdos and freaks I’ve ever loved and written for and about. I think about my people.

As my rejection streak continues I have to keep reminding myself that not everyone is my people.  Not everyone will get it.

A lot of these people will mean well when they tell me to write to things I don’t feel or honestly enjoy.  For every person who suggest I submit to cushy lady mags and websites where every author profile is full of doctorates and Nice White Ladies who write about Nice White Lady things.

It’s okay.

I have my chosen family.

I know that somewhere in the universe there are people who read what I write and totally get it.

I know that sometimes I write stories for the girl I was when I was 20 and letting a foot fetishist take dirty pictures of my feet and I was taking 3 hour bus rides to work and running away from weird suburban White boys who wanted to talk to me because it freaked out their parents.

I’m okay.

I can keep writing, I can write the things need to write. The stories only  can tell.

Next week I’ll be posting a new featured author interview, I’ll talk about one of my heroes who is also a very awesome person. I will also probably be doing some pimping of things you can buy because Lil Mama needs some new fuckin contacts.


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