Okay, so, in this post election Trumpfuckian* nightmare, being that I am a creator of things, I have been creating things.
I already published one essay about my real feelings post election. Find it here at Medium. I put a general content warning on it for everything. If you’re feeling fragile do not read.
If you’ve been here for more than five minutes you could fairly say, I have a salty tongue. I’m a foul mouthed heathen. I use the Seven Dirty Words quite liberally in my work.
I have long understood that because I stand by my bad words as being necessary, that precludes me being published a lot of places. I get it. I know.
I know I am a difficult sell even when I’m not saying mother fucker every few words and it’s okay. I made peace with that.
Now, before I was totally done with the essay, I had a nibble of interest that quickly turned into a, well if you (insert edits that would strip it of it’s power and turn it into Nice Black Lady Pap+end with hope I don’t feel) and I am not with that.
Now, since I published it myself, the reception has been pretty great. Way less pushback than I expected, some folks saw fit to use my tip jar and send some donations which is incredible. I’m about that life.
That said, I find it interesting that when I’m completely naked honest, I’m talking ass out bucky ass nekkid- I self publish and things tend to go well.
I take that same energy and what I think is an integral part of my voice to the markets and I fail. Miserably.
My literary partner in let us call it impending Unfuckwithableness Milcah has pointed out to me, I’ve succeeded when I’m just 100% about who I am and not trying to pretend.
And we come back around to me being me and my, uh, not quite fitting a lot of the narrative places have of what they want to say.
For instance, some okay, no let me be real about it all of my poetry lately has been bloody, bleak, and not uplifting. Basically how I’m feeling. I clocked some very swift rejections for a piece I’ll put at Ink node later on. Keep your eye out here.
Being rejected doesn’t but me by itself. What bothers me are the notes that came with the rejections about how these pubs are going for Hope and Unity and Feelgoodness (my word) right now.
But why isn’t there room for me too?
I really hate the idea that we as creators must immediately go to the hope and not document our grief and rage. My grief, my rage isn’t going to end with all of us holding hands and singing Old Negro Spirituals.
It’s going to end in blood because that’s how I feel.
There’s room for more than happy uplift.
There is space for those who are despairing and only know to make art or otherwise create to help get through it.
I’ve talked to some friends and a lot of us are in this same boat. We need to scream and make bloody rage filled art and we’d like for it to be valued as much as the uplift and shiny hope.
So yanno, if you have space, consider making space for us less shiny minded folks.
One thought on “But Can I be Honest? Or Can a Bitch live?”
Can’t say fuck or mother fucker enough