That title is a reference to one of my favorite Master P songs.
I haven’t been writing much fiction in the last couple of weeks. I think I needed a break. I was trying to make the erotica happen and wound up writing some seriously unsexy bullshit.
I’m reading my new books really slowly. Normally I’m a very speedy greedy reader. I binge read. I read like people do lines.
I’m trying to be a calmer reader. Of the couple of books I’m reading right now I’m keeping it to either three stories or about fifty pages at a time. It’s interesting. I like letting the small chunks percolate and inform how I feel about the next thing I read.
I had a weird interaction last week.
I got a note on facebooks from an author I am sort of acquainted with. We were on one or another writer group on teh interwebs 8-9 years ago. He expressed a kind of back handed pleasure that I am apparently “really” writing writing. I asked what he meant and he didn’t elaborate further. He also seems to think that my little collections reflect “poorly” on me as an author.
Of course because they are largely unedited.
Not that he’s read either. Nor does he seem to understand that I state explicitly in both that they are in fact unedited and yes I have reasons. I kind of loathe that attitude. That snide, oh aren’t you precious kind of attitude.
I don’t understand why anyone would be that invested in how I’m going about this writing thing. Clearly I’m pretty okay with what I’m doing. I’m writing things I feel good about (save for that thing I wrote on Friday night…don’t ask.) and I am feeling kinda successful. Rejection Farm and all.
Needless to say I informed this dude that he can keep his shit to himself and he promptly blocked me and said I need to work on my hostility.
Now some stuff for y’all to read that I have read and enjoyed.
First this is why I fucking Love Jerry Stahl.
But Jesus H. Jewballs, listen to me! I’m supposed to give the Rumpus a letter. And instead – boy is my face red! – I’ve been writing a letter about writing letters!… No – I’m lying again! I’m not even talking about letters here. I’m talking about emails. You can’t really blurt in a letter. (Did I mention I have epistolary blurt issues? I did, right?)
Go read his letter at the Rumpus.
And from my friend Mensah via Pank:
The three finalists were The Pale King by David Foster Wallace, Train Dreams by Denis Johnson, and Swamplandia! by Karen Russell. I haven’t read either Swamplandia! or Train Dreams, and The Pale King is currently waiting for me to crack it open once more. In other words, I have no idea if any of these three books deserve the Prize or not. Seems the Pulitzer Board had the same issue as well, given that they “couldn’t agree” on the winner.
Confession- I don’t really understand most lit award bruhaha.
Next I am really looking forward to reading Fukt 2 Start With by Walt Cessna. This blurb image is gorgeousness.
Sex, drugs, naked boys. Is there more I need to arouse my interest? Nope not really.
Also my dear friend Anthony Beal has a new erotic novel coming out. You can read some tidbits from it over here on facebooks.
You should read M. Christian’s book Finger’s Breadth. Y’all already know how much I love his work and this..just go get it.
I think that’s all for now. I’m distracted watching Dr. Dre and Snoop from Coachella. The Tupac part, that shit tugged at my heartstrings in a way I can’t even begin to explain. Here you watch it too.