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[a.d.m.i.t. artwork by dominic f. marceau]
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Saturday, July 30, 2011
a quick reminder...
for those of you who enjoyed the piece of writing i posted earlier this week, i do have a work-in-progress going right here on the blog. it's very much a rough draft, but i still welcome any feedback that you have. it's called "a definable moment in time" and new installments are posted on wednesdays and saturdays. you can't leave feedback directly on the page, but you can always send me comments privately.
[a.d.m.i.t. artwork by dominic f. marceau]
[a.d.m.i.t. artwork by dominic f. marceau]
Thursday, July 28, 2011
summer of...
for whatever reason, i've been feeling a little nostalgic lately and it reminded me that i had this piece, which was in itself a product of a feeling of nostalgia i felt several years back. and no, not all of it is true. but some of it is. the important parts. [mental health mondays editor's note: did you know that "nostalgia" was originally what they called the condition that soldiers developed during war time, after seeing countless atrocities and thousands of human corpses all around them? a very mushy, romantic beginning for something we know call "post-traumatic stress disorder".]
...
“I love this city in the summer.”
And, indeed, he has his arms outstretched as if he would like to embrace it, the peach-cobbler streaks of dawn appearing over the lazy pewter waves hitting the wharf. He’s spread over the park bench where we’ve come to watch the sun rise as if he’s a drapery. He looks a little like a downmarket drapery in his loose clothes, the amorphous black sweater he always seems to be wearing, with its endearing picks and widening holes. In the mental haze of sleep deprivation, fading drugs and bliss that fogs me in now, I imagine that I could pull him around me, like a blanket.
And it would smell sweet like patchouli and nag champa, like the incense he’s always burning around
home, in the probably vain hope that it keeps his neighbours from catching an occasional whiff of hash smoke. I don’t know it yet, but years from now when I pass one of those stores that sells cultural nicknacks from various places in Asia, I’ll smell this and all I’ll be able to think of for the next half hour will be him.
“What is it that you love about it?” I tilt my head into the crook of his arm, as I know I’m supposed to, catching a little trace of male perspiration from the shirt he has under his sweater. It’s so humid that the sweat is only now starting to dry on either of us, although we’ve been outside for the better part of a half hour.
“I don’t know, everything. The weather, the fact that there’s actually things [to do].” He actually trails off on the last one. I have to paste the words “to do” in my mind, so that the statement makes sense. He’s tired too, but it isn’t just that. Looking out onto the haze over the harbour, seeing the sun creeping upwards after we’ve spent the night out, this place, this exact space in time, is wonderful. I love it too. But it isn’t just that it’s the city in the summer. It’s this.
I only asked to see if he’d come right out and say it. We’re happy because we’ve just come through a rough patch, both of us, because we’re both older and wiser and looking forward to what comes next and because we’ve had a fun night dancing and eating hash brownies that his room mate made and because the weather allows us to sit out on a bench on the waterfront in the morning and watch the sun come up and because we’re together, both literally and figuratively.
“I know.” It’s all my dry mouth will utter at this point. I’d like to tell him more, but I’d look foolish. And I’m worried that if I told him what I’m thinking, that I wouldn’t wish myself anywhere in the world right now but right here, on this bench, with him at this moment, that he’d think I meant something else. He’d kiss me, thinking that was what I was after, since everyone else seems to believe it’s what’s really going on. And then the sun would fall from the sky, into a pool of thunder clouds and the east wind would fly off the waves. I hope he knows that I love him, that without him, I’d have frayed like that old sweater he’s wearing, I’d have come apart. Years from now, that will torture me, the idea that he might not have known how much he meant to me.
His hand brushes my hair and I notice that I can still see the cut. He’s removed the bandage that was covering a deep gash on his thumb so that now I can see it in its jagged purpled glory, slowly closing, flesh knitting back together.
About a month ago, his girlfriend had decided that he and I were having an affair, that we had been conducting some sort of illicit liaison in the shadows for months and had forbade him to see me. She started showing up at his work to collect him, to bring him home, so that she could be sure that he didn’t sneak off to me for an assignation.
Two weeks ago, he was fed up, left work early, came to meet me and came back to my place where I cooked us vegetarian lasagna and we talked about music we wanted to get our hands on and watched reruns of Twin Peaks on television. He probably left around eleven. That’s a guess, because I wasn’t watching the clock. I just know that at quarter to one, when the phone rang, I had gotten undressed and gotten into bed.
“For God’s sake, stop by the shop tomorrow to see me!”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“To make sure I’m there, why! And if I’m not there, call the cops and send them over here!”
End of conversation.
I called in sick to my own job and sat outside his work for an hour, knowing he wouldn’t show up until five minutes before eleven, just in time to open. I didn’t care because I had insomnia and had been up pacing my own apartment for a couple of hours anyway, and because I could feel just that awful twinge, fear like glass splinters pushing into my skin. And I could feel them push that little bit harder when he showed up bristly and grey, looking like a half full trash bag, kicked in, deflated.
He opened up the shop almost as if I weren’t there, trance-like motions repeating the rituals of work his body had come to know. Then he turned around and produced a flat, disk-like object in a sort of rough C-shape.
“As God as my witness, I had no idea that CDs could bend.” This is the greeting I get.
She’d lost it. She smashed up their entire apartment, put holes in the wall that their damage deposit couldn’t possibly cover, torn most of his clothing into bits. Bent, stomped, scratched or bit every compact disc she could find.
“Bit, seriously, bit?”
“You wanna come by and see?” He answered, voice thick with tiredness and bitterness and creaking under the strain of having to retell the horrific details. “I’m lucky I’m broke. If I’d had more money, she might have found something really valuable to destroy.”
“Still, music... who the hell hurts music? It’s against the rules.”
But I was talking about the cut. The cut came when she ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. His hand had been in the way and had been crushed against the metal plate where the knob slides into place. I can feel that wound on my own hand.
This didn’t start that night. It didn’t start a week before, when she came out with her accusations and basically grounded him. This had been happening, quietly, like an undertow, for months. I’d never liked her. She’d never liked or trusted me. It hadn’t mattered at first.
A few months ago, I’d found out that my boyfriend, the person who I called the love of my life, the
man who I thought I was going to spend my life with, had been cheating on me when we were together. We’d actually broken up before in a civil, decent way, because we’d grown apart. He’d grown apart and I’d stood still. I’d turned even then to the one person who seemed to be able to be my friend and I’d held onto his hand. I thought the new closeness of the friendship was making me stronger. Until that strength ended up getting tested, when a mutual acquaintance asked if I hadn’t been angry to find out about the cheating.
And once I found out, I was angry. At myself.
There I was, all convinced that things had been decent, had been clean, had been adult, had been clear and there I am suddenly standing in front of the crowd, stripped to my skin, eyes burrowing into me like worms.
I needed a lot then. Not specific things, so much, but just a horrible, howling, nameless, speechless need. And, having feebly reached out for a proffered hand when it was offered initially, I grabbed tight, in order to drag myself from the emotional quicksand.
Watching the sun peel back the layers of mist, I know how it must have looked, how suspect I must have been. There I was, the friend who was suddenly everywhere, who was suddenly demanding complete, focused attention. I couldn’t see it then, of course, couldn’t see that I was holding someone’s loved one back from her the way mine had been held from me, couldn’t see that the holes in the wall and torn clothing and bent CDs were symptoms of the same illness I had had, the symptoms of one who did not have a hand to grab onto. Or if I could see it, I didn’t care. Panic is wholly selfish.
This is in the past for us now, sitting, scents of incense and perspiration hanging on us, my head inclined into his shoulder. In ten years, he’ll be married and it won’t matter that his ex-girlfriend went crazy on him and smashed up his things. It won’t matter that she got jealous and it confused things between us, because we both started to wonder if I was asking for something more. He’ll be happy and I’ll be happy for him. But I don’t know that now. For now, I just know that the two of us have no concrete plans, nothing locked in as the summer slides away from us like the tide. There’ll be another one, soon enough, but not this one. Not this moment. This moment is singular and gone.
“We’ve been through a lot together,” he says it with such resignation that I’m almost hurt, as if he would have wished it otherwise. But it isn’t that he wants something different, which I’ll realise a few days later, when I’m thinking about the persistence of this moment. It’s the weight of the past on him, being lifted by the light of day.
Once, at the beginning of the summer, we had taken a picnic and gone out to a park on the edge of the city. It had just been sandwiches and potato salad, but he’d snuck some beer out, because we are of an age when surreptitious alcohol has an undeniable appeal. We talked, I can’t remember about what, even sitting together two months later, watching the sun, we spent a quiet afternoon licking our wounds. Waiting for the bus to take us on the long trek home, we fell silent until I announced, without seeing it, that the bus was about to arrive.
And so it did.
Magic, that.
There’s a little chill to the fog this morning, something under the humidity that’s kept it warm and thick for the last few weeks. The heat is breaking. A few weeks from now, we’ll be wearing jackets.
Although I don’t know it yet, I’ll forgive the person who hurt me. I’ll forget the name of the woman who went crazy on him and have to push myself to recall it. I’ll look out on other sunrises in different cities and they will all be beautiful, because sunrises always are.
I press my palm into his hand and pull his arm around me. At the same time, I close my eyes and see the red effect of the glowing dawn on the other side, thinking that if I wait long enough, the sun will be in the same place when I open them again.
...
“I love this city in the summer.”
And, indeed, he has his arms outstretched as if he would like to embrace it, the peach-cobbler streaks of dawn appearing over the lazy pewter waves hitting the wharf. He’s spread over the park bench where we’ve come to watch the sun rise as if he’s a drapery. He looks a little like a downmarket drapery in his loose clothes, the amorphous black sweater he always seems to be wearing, with its endearing picks and widening holes. In the mental haze of sleep deprivation, fading drugs and bliss that fogs me in now, I imagine that I could pull him around me, like a blanket.
And it would smell sweet like patchouli and nag champa, like the incense he’s always burning around
home, in the probably vain hope that it keeps his neighbours from catching an occasional whiff of hash smoke. I don’t know it yet, but years from now when I pass one of those stores that sells cultural nicknacks from various places in Asia, I’ll smell this and all I’ll be able to think of for the next half hour will be him. “What is it that you love about it?” I tilt my head into the crook of his arm, as I know I’m supposed to, catching a little trace of male perspiration from the shirt he has under his sweater. It’s so humid that the sweat is only now starting to dry on either of us, although we’ve been outside for the better part of a half hour.
“I don’t know, everything. The weather, the fact that there’s actually things [to do].” He actually trails off on the last one. I have to paste the words “to do” in my mind, so that the statement makes sense. He’s tired too, but it isn’t just that. Looking out onto the haze over the harbour, seeing the sun creeping upwards after we’ve spent the night out, this place, this exact space in time, is wonderful. I love it too. But it isn’t just that it’s the city in the summer. It’s this.
I only asked to see if he’d come right out and say it. We’re happy because we’ve just come through a rough patch, both of us, because we’re both older and wiser and looking forward to what comes next and because we’ve had a fun night dancing and eating hash brownies that his room mate made and because the weather allows us to sit out on a bench on the waterfront in the morning and watch the sun come up and because we’re together, both literally and figuratively.
“I know.” It’s all my dry mouth will utter at this point. I’d like to tell him more, but I’d look foolish. And I’m worried that if I told him what I’m thinking, that I wouldn’t wish myself anywhere in the world right now but right here, on this bench, with him at this moment, that he’d think I meant something else. He’d kiss me, thinking that was what I was after, since everyone else seems to believe it’s what’s really going on. And then the sun would fall from the sky, into a pool of thunder clouds and the east wind would fly off the waves. I hope he knows that I love him, that without him, I’d have frayed like that old sweater he’s wearing, I’d have come apart. Years from now, that will torture me, the idea that he might not have known how much he meant to me.
His hand brushes my hair and I notice that I can still see the cut. He’s removed the bandage that was covering a deep gash on his thumb so that now I can see it in its jagged purpled glory, slowly closing, flesh knitting back together.
About a month ago, his girlfriend had decided that he and I were having an affair, that we had been conducting some sort of illicit liaison in the shadows for months and had forbade him to see me. She started showing up at his work to collect him, to bring him home, so that she could be sure that he didn’t sneak off to me for an assignation. Two weeks ago, he was fed up, left work early, came to meet me and came back to my place where I cooked us vegetarian lasagna and we talked about music we wanted to get our hands on and watched reruns of Twin Peaks on television. He probably left around eleven. That’s a guess, because I wasn’t watching the clock. I just know that at quarter to one, when the phone rang, I had gotten undressed and gotten into bed.
“For God’s sake, stop by the shop tomorrow to see me!”
“Why? Is something wrong?”
“To make sure I’m there, why! And if I’m not there, call the cops and send them over here!”
End of conversation.
I called in sick to my own job and sat outside his work for an hour, knowing he wouldn’t show up until five minutes before eleven, just in time to open. I didn’t care because I had insomnia and had been up pacing my own apartment for a couple of hours anyway, and because I could feel just that awful twinge, fear like glass splinters pushing into my skin. And I could feel them push that little bit harder when he showed up bristly and grey, looking like a half full trash bag, kicked in, deflated.
He opened up the shop almost as if I weren’t there, trance-like motions repeating the rituals of work his body had come to know. Then he turned around and produced a flat, disk-like object in a sort of rough C-shape.
“As God as my witness, I had no idea that CDs could bend.” This is the greeting I get.
She’d lost it. She smashed up their entire apartment, put holes in the wall that their damage deposit couldn’t possibly cover, torn most of his clothing into bits. Bent, stomped, scratched or bit every compact disc she could find.
“Bit, seriously, bit?”
“You wanna come by and see?” He answered, voice thick with tiredness and bitterness and creaking under the strain of having to retell the horrific details. “I’m lucky I’m broke. If I’d had more money, she might have found something really valuable to destroy.”
“Still, music... who the hell hurts music? It’s against the rules.”
But I was talking about the cut. The cut came when she ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. His hand had been in the way and had been crushed against the metal plate where the knob slides into place. I can feel that wound on my own hand.
This didn’t start that night. It didn’t start a week before, when she came out with her accusations and basically grounded him. This had been happening, quietly, like an undertow, for months. I’d never liked her. She’d never liked or trusted me. It hadn’t mattered at first.
A few months ago, I’d found out that my boyfriend, the person who I called the love of my life, the
man who I thought I was going to spend my life with, had been cheating on me when we were together. We’d actually broken up before in a civil, decent way, because we’d grown apart. He’d grown apart and I’d stood still. I’d turned even then to the one person who seemed to be able to be my friend and I’d held onto his hand. I thought the new closeness of the friendship was making me stronger. Until that strength ended up getting tested, when a mutual acquaintance asked if I hadn’t been angry to find out about the cheating. And once I found out, I was angry. At myself.
There I was, all convinced that things had been decent, had been clean, had been adult, had been clear and there I am suddenly standing in front of the crowd, stripped to my skin, eyes burrowing into me like worms.
I needed a lot then. Not specific things, so much, but just a horrible, howling, nameless, speechless need. And, having feebly reached out for a proffered hand when it was offered initially, I grabbed tight, in order to drag myself from the emotional quicksand.
Watching the sun peel back the layers of mist, I know how it must have looked, how suspect I must have been. There I was, the friend who was suddenly everywhere, who was suddenly demanding complete, focused attention. I couldn’t see it then, of course, couldn’t see that I was holding someone’s loved one back from her the way mine had been held from me, couldn’t see that the holes in the wall and torn clothing and bent CDs were symptoms of the same illness I had had, the symptoms of one who did not have a hand to grab onto. Or if I could see it, I didn’t care. Panic is wholly selfish.
This is in the past for us now, sitting, scents of incense and perspiration hanging on us, my head inclined into his shoulder. In ten years, he’ll be married and it won’t matter that his ex-girlfriend went crazy on him and smashed up his things. It won’t matter that she got jealous and it confused things between us, because we both started to wonder if I was asking for something more. He’ll be happy and I’ll be happy for him. But I don’t know that now. For now, I just know that the two of us have no concrete plans, nothing locked in as the summer slides away from us like the tide. There’ll be another one, soon enough, but not this one. Not this moment. This moment is singular and gone.
“We’ve been through a lot together,” he says it with such resignation that I’m almost hurt, as if he would have wished it otherwise. But it isn’t that he wants something different, which I’ll realise a few days later, when I’m thinking about the persistence of this moment. It’s the weight of the past on him, being lifted by the light of day.
Once, at the beginning of the summer, we had taken a picnic and gone out to a park on the edge of the city. It had just been sandwiches and potato salad, but he’d snuck some beer out, because we are of an age when surreptitious alcohol has an undeniable appeal. We talked, I can’t remember about what, even sitting together two months later, watching the sun, we spent a quiet afternoon licking our wounds. Waiting for the bus to take us on the long trek home, we fell silent until I announced, without seeing it, that the bus was about to arrive. And so it did.
Magic, that.
There’s a little chill to the fog this morning, something under the humidity that’s kept it warm and thick for the last few weeks. The heat is breaking. A few weeks from now, we’ll be wearing jackets.
Although I don’t know it yet, I’ll forgive the person who hurt me. I’ll forget the name of the woman who went crazy on him and have to push myself to recall it. I’ll look out on other sunrises in different cities and they will all be beautiful, because sunrises always are.
I press my palm into his hand and pull his arm around me. At the same time, I close my eyes and see the red effect of the glowing dawn on the other side, thinking that if I wait long enough, the sun will be in the same place when I open them again.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
the artist at work
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| yeah, maybe we can do something next tuesday... |
i used to think that way about creative work, until i was in my thirties and, like a lot of things i used to believe, it struck me as a little bit pathetic. seriously, it sounds like the advice you give someone who has a crush on a person with whom they patently have no chance at all. "just be yourself and if it's meant to be, it'll happen". i am not a patient person as a rule and therefore, i decided that i would do whatever i could to make those creative epiphanies happen.
i made myself start writing down all the ideas that i have. [well, maybe not all, but some of the ideas i have are really, really bad.]
i organised all of my writing files so that they are in logic order and not just a bunch of files called "random idea june 2011-1" sitting in a folder called "writing". that means that when i remember that six months ago, i'd had this awesome idea for an opening for something and then decided to "come back to it later", i can actually find it on the off chance that i do want to come back to it later.
i try to keep myself in the habit of writing. i even started a blog to help me do this. [of course, the problem i wasn't counting on is that writing said blog has become a sort of a creative pursuit unto itself.
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| teh riters blok. i haz it. |
still, there are times when it just seems like no matter what i do, i am just not good enough for that damn muse to pay me a visit and treat me like i'm special. if this were a relationship with another person, i'd move on, but this is a critical component of who i am. i can't just shrug it off the way i would the loss of another person.
i'm stuck at the moment with a peculiar sort of problem, in that everything that i want to work on, all the big ideas i have at the moment are, well, big. they're not the kind of thing i can just bang out in a single night's work or two, but projects that require careful thought and planning. like the ongoing saga of "a definable moment in time", or like the thing i thought of after i had this dream about being a young boy who discovers a sort of portal to a strange utopian but fascistic world and starts taking his family over there and then realises that it's really hard to either survive or get back. [i'm serious, it's a fantastic idea in my head. i even drew pictures of it, which was both a creative way for me to work on an idea and a reminder that i can't draw for shit.] or the second screenplay i've been working on, where everything is already worked out, but which i hate working on because the formatting requirements for screenplays are probably why hollywood writers commit suicide. [and yes, i know that i could get software to do it for me, but i haven't yet reached that point where i'm willing to fork over a few hundred dollars for peace of mind. [i have it in my head that i'm going to change the system and reinvent how screenplays are formatted. that'll be how history remembers me. the screenplay formatting chick.]
so now it's like the muse has conceded that we are in a long term relationship and that we have a future together, but doesn't want to bother with any of the day to day stuff. that's my job.
i suppose that if i really want that relationship to work, i should just focus on it.
 |
| not the muse calliope |
as in, not swinging through the vines of the internet like tarzan waiting to find something that amuses me. [although if i hadn't, i wouldn't have found out about beyoncé the giant chicken, which would be a sad.]
as in, not assuming that writing on the blog is going to put me in a frame of mind to write quality fiction just because the two activities happen to look the same on the surface.
oh, yeah. i guess i have to go now...
Sunday, June 5, 2011
who is beatriz coca?
i wish i could answer that question for you. in fact, if anyone were able to answer that question, it would be me, because beatriz makes an appearance one pages 184-185 of "a definable moment in time", aka the story i've been publishing in serial form here on the blog. [see "let me tell you a story", above right. and no, we're nowhere near pages 184-185 yet, but i passed them long ago in writing terms.]
i know that there was a reason that i included her and a reason why i gave her a fairly distinctive name [at least for a story largely about white north americans and europeans] and i even have a hint as to how she's supposed to tie into the story. i'm reasonably sure she was an excellent clap of thunder in the midst of a brainstorm. there's just one problem.
i can't remember who she is anymore.
because of the relative complexity of the story for "a.d.m.i.t." [best. acronym. ever.] and the fact that it was clear from the beginning that it was going to take me a long time to finish it, plus the fact that i'm coming up with a lot of new details as i go along, i forced myself to keep very good notes on everything that's supposed to happen in the story because, just in case it appears otherwise, almost everything is in there for a very specific reason.
unfortunately, when i got caught up in writing about beatriz, may she rest in peace [actually *minor spoiler alert* in pieces, but we'll get there eventually], i was excited that i'd come up with a new way in which to enrich the plot. i was so excited that i guess i figured that there was no way i wouldn't remember such awesome and important ideas and i never bothered to update my notes. now i'm stuck with a name and a couple of sparse details of what happened to her, but i'm not sure at what point her true importance is to be revealed.
i have to say that part of me does appreciate the irony of the fact that i'm having this crisis over a story in which the central character has fairly severe memory problems and has to keep copious notes about who she meets, what she's been doing and everything else in her life. but more of me is just mortified that i was silly enough to deviate from the established path without leaving myself a few bread crumbs to find my way home again.
let this be a lesson to all of you who have similar creative pursuits: write things down. always. if you decide to drop your set plan or go off in another direction that's fine, because it's your business. however, if you don't bother to keep track of your creative genius, you'll sooner or later be kept up all night, haunted by the realisation that you are not only your own greatest critic, but your own biggest road-block.
i know that there was a reason that i included her and a reason why i gave her a fairly distinctive name [at least for a story largely about white north americans and europeans] and i even have a hint as to how she's supposed to tie into the story. i'm reasonably sure she was an excellent clap of thunder in the midst of a brainstorm. there's just one problem.
i can't remember who she is anymore.
because of the relative complexity of the story for "a.d.m.i.t." [best. acronym. ever.] and the fact that it was clear from the beginning that it was going to take me a long time to finish it, plus the fact that i'm coming up with a lot of new details as i go along, i forced myself to keep very good notes on everything that's supposed to happen in the story because, just in case it appears otherwise, almost everything is in there for a very specific reason.unfortunately, when i got caught up in writing about beatriz, may she rest in peace [actually *minor spoiler alert* in pieces, but we'll get there eventually], i was excited that i'd come up with a new way in which to enrich the plot. i was so excited that i guess i figured that there was no way i wouldn't remember such awesome and important ideas and i never bothered to update my notes. now i'm stuck with a name and a couple of sparse details of what happened to her, but i'm not sure at what point her true importance is to be revealed.
i have to say that part of me does appreciate the irony of the fact that i'm having this crisis over a story in which the central character has fairly severe memory problems and has to keep copious notes about who she meets, what she's been doing and everything else in her life. but more of me is just mortified that i was silly enough to deviate from the established path without leaving myself a few bread crumbs to find my way home again.
let this be a lesson to all of you who have similar creative pursuits: write things down. always. if you decide to drop your set plan or go off in another direction that's fine, because it's your business. however, if you don't bother to keep track of your creative genius, you'll sooner or later be kept up all night, haunted by the realisation that you are not only your own greatest critic, but your own biggest road-block.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
"Writer's porn"
I've ordered this book because I'm at this point with my YA novel where...well, frankly, I'm not actively writing it, but I'm ready to. I'm excited about the story and wishing i hadn't gone to California in January so I could take a week and go to some magical place and write. That I might do next year, but this year, I am stuck with the constraints of real life, which means fitting writing in to a full-time job, part-time blogging, freelancing, dating, family, social life, etc. Not easy when you're a natural procrastinator. But I could and do come up with zillions of excuses not to work and none of them are good ones. Ultimately, if you want to do something, you will do it. I know that very, very well.
I read novelist Justine Musk's blog Tribal Writer for inspiration to work, and she writes of Alan Watts' The 90-Day Novel:
I like to think of writing fiction as a difficult and intricate kind of magic.
Magic = skills + art.
You need to learn a rather stunning array of skills, whether it’s the rules of decent grammar or the principles of storytelling, and then you need to transform them into something your own. The dancer becomes the dance. You don’t see the plot points, you only experience story.
So I love to read books and articles about how to write fiction. I think of it as writer’s porn.
So I guess we'll see. My goal is to be done with my novel by Labor Day. I hope this book can guide me in the right direction of how to pull off these characters who are less than half my age and live in an age of technology I couldn't have imaged as a teenager, and barely can now (it's a contemporary, but technology plays a huge role).
You can also check out the90daynovel.com
I read novelist Justine Musk's blog Tribal Writer for inspiration to work, and she writes of Alan Watts' The 90-Day Novel:
I like to think of writing fiction as a difficult and intricate kind of magic.
Magic = skills + art.
You need to learn a rather stunning array of skills, whether it’s the rules of decent grammar or the principles of storytelling, and then you need to transform them into something your own. The dancer becomes the dance. You don’t see the plot points, you only experience story.
So I love to read books and articles about how to write fiction. I think of it as writer’s porn.
So I guess we'll see. My goal is to be done with my novel by Labor Day. I hope this book can guide me in the right direction of how to pull off these characters who are less than half my age and live in an age of technology I couldn't have imaged as a teenager, and barely can now (it's a contemporary, but technology plays a huge role).
You can also check out the90daynovel.com
Saturday, May 7, 2011
From the bondage erotica trenches
I have a giant pile of pending and overdue writing, fiction and nonfiction, as well as reading and editing for anthologies, awaiting me. Sometimes the to do lists get so big and scary that I feel instantly paralyzed. Writing even one word feels hopeless, and yet that's what I have to do, and that's what always makes me feel better. I've seen the results of not writing, both the money I didn't make but even worse, the lack it causes inside me, faced with the book I hold in my hands without my essay and photo, or that space on the bookstore shelves where I know my book could've been, if only. It's why I'm such a devotee of Justine Musk's blog Tribal Writer and why I just ordered Steven Pressfield's book Do The Work. Sometimes I need a kick in the ass or, ahem, slap in the face, to force me out of my worst thoughts about myself and into the writing. Money, sadly, is not a motivator. By now, failure looming should be, but it isn't.
I've realized that I like to set goals where I give something up. I'm hoping I can go this year without drinking a drop of alcohol, both because I think it's healthier for me, and simply didn't live up to that goal the last few years. I just decided not to do any more readings, save for Seattle and London, until I finish the YA novel draft I'm working on. That felt like a proactive, good decision, in that being surrounded by people who have, in fact, written a book, only serves to remind me of my lack, and it feels wasteful to me, of both time and money. But that is only half the equation. Giving up doing certain activities will only aid me if I take Pressfield's advice and spend 2 hours a day writing. Or more. I rarely do.
So one of the things I'm working on, that should be no big deal considering how many erotica stories I've already written in the last ten or so years, is for Best Bondage Erotica 2012. I will release the table of contents once it's finalized in a few months, but I can tell you that for the first time for a kinky anthology of mine that wasn't specifically about the topic, the majority of the stories I received, and that are currently in my manuscript, feature male bottoms/submissives/bondees. Which I think is a wonderful and welcome change, but means my story needs to fill the other side of the equation. I am working on two, actually, and one is the kind of story I often write. Playful, cute, fun, kinky. There's feathers and tickling and sadism. And that's great. I like writing those kinds of stories but they feel "light" to me in a sense that the other one I'm working on doesn't. I won't say frivolous, because I think the point of erotica is to arouse and entertain and I think my story will do that.
But the other type of story, the one I am trying to write more of because it makes me feel more "like a writer" is the deeper, darker kind, the ones like "The End" or "Espionage" or the upcoming "Punching Bag," which will be published in Tristan Taormino's anthology Take Me There: Trans and Genderqueer Erotica. They're intense, dark, heavy, which is perhaps ironic, or perhaps fitting, since the story I'm working on is called "The Weight." It taps into what I love about writing erotica, which is figuring out certain aspects of my kinks in fictional form and articulating them. But no matter how open-minded I try to be, and considering I have a tattoo with the word "open" I'd say I strive for that as much as I can, it's still daunting and unnerving to go there. The lighter, breezier, more playful stories, like "Monica and Me" or "Doing the Dishes," the ones that will get laughs at a reading, are easier on some level because they don't push my buttons. They don't make me uneasy. They don't ever make me wonder, in the deepest recesses of my mind, "What is wrong with me? Why would I fantasize about that?" And one is not better than the other, but I will admit that I'm prejudiced, when it comes to my own writing, toward the darker kind of story. It's where I'm trying to go in my nonfiction too; does this make me look flawed, imperfect, foolish...because I am, and I'm human? Then yes, put it in.
I know that, and I know that's what I gravitate to in pieces I read, the people who, at least, on the page, are unafraid to go there, even if they too have to fake it til they make it. So that's where I'm at this weekend on that one teeny tiny piece. Maybe I'll scrap it, save it for another time, go back to the long, lighter, funnier piece for the Major Media Company that wants my fiction rather than my mini memoir. But I hope I will push myself and try to forget about all the what-ifs, the who-might-read-this-and-think-x, the what-does-this-say-about-me, and instead just bottom to the story and give it all of myself, as openly and guilelessly and freely as I'm capable of.
I've realized that I like to set goals where I give something up. I'm hoping I can go this year without drinking a drop of alcohol, both because I think it's healthier for me, and simply didn't live up to that goal the last few years. I just decided not to do any more readings, save for Seattle and London, until I finish the YA novel draft I'm working on. That felt like a proactive, good decision, in that being surrounded by people who have, in fact, written a book, only serves to remind me of my lack, and it feels wasteful to me, of both time and money. But that is only half the equation. Giving up doing certain activities will only aid me if I take Pressfield's advice and spend 2 hours a day writing. Or more. I rarely do.
So one of the things I'm working on, that should be no big deal considering how many erotica stories I've already written in the last ten or so years, is for Best Bondage Erotica 2012. I will release the table of contents once it's finalized in a few months, but I can tell you that for the first time for a kinky anthology of mine that wasn't specifically about the topic, the majority of the stories I received, and that are currently in my manuscript, feature male bottoms/submissives/bondees. Which I think is a wonderful and welcome change, but means my story needs to fill the other side of the equation. I am working on two, actually, and one is the kind of story I often write. Playful, cute, fun, kinky. There's feathers and tickling and sadism. And that's great. I like writing those kinds of stories but they feel "light" to me in a sense that the other one I'm working on doesn't. I won't say frivolous, because I think the point of erotica is to arouse and entertain and I think my story will do that.
But the other type of story, the one I am trying to write more of because it makes me feel more "like a writer" is the deeper, darker kind, the ones like "The End" or "Espionage" or the upcoming "Punching Bag," which will be published in Tristan Taormino's anthology Take Me There: Trans and Genderqueer Erotica. They're intense, dark, heavy, which is perhaps ironic, or perhaps fitting, since the story I'm working on is called "The Weight." It taps into what I love about writing erotica, which is figuring out certain aspects of my kinks in fictional form and articulating them. But no matter how open-minded I try to be, and considering I have a tattoo with the word "open" I'd say I strive for that as much as I can, it's still daunting and unnerving to go there. The lighter, breezier, more playful stories, like "Monica and Me" or "Doing the Dishes," the ones that will get laughs at a reading, are easier on some level because they don't push my buttons. They don't make me uneasy. They don't ever make me wonder, in the deepest recesses of my mind, "What is wrong with me? Why would I fantasize about that?" And one is not better than the other, but I will admit that I'm prejudiced, when it comes to my own writing, toward the darker kind of story. It's where I'm trying to go in my nonfiction too; does this make me look flawed, imperfect, foolish...because I am, and I'm human? Then yes, put it in.
I know that, and I know that's what I gravitate to in pieces I read, the people who, at least, on the page, are unafraid to go there, even if they too have to fake it til they make it. So that's where I'm at this weekend on that one teeny tiny piece. Maybe I'll scrap it, save it for another time, go back to the long, lighter, funnier piece for the Major Media Company that wants my fiction rather than my mini memoir. But I hope I will push myself and try to forget about all the what-ifs, the who-might-read-this-and-think-x, the what-does-this-say-about-me, and instead just bottom to the story and give it all of myself, as openly and guilelessly and freely as I'm capable of.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
ahem
just letting you know that, as promised, the second installment of my serial story is now up. the first one remains there [i'll probably have to wipe the slate clean eventually, but for now, i'll just be leaving everything in tact.
you can access the tale by clicking on the "let me tell you a story" link or, if you prefer click here.
feedback is always welcome.
you can access the tale by clicking on the "let me tell you a story" link or, if you prefer click here.
feedback is always welcome.
Modern Love Rejects has launched
My Modern Love rejection, from The New York Times Modern Love section, but of course, goes up tomorrow at Modern Love Rejects. I hesitated over giving permission, even though I'd submitted it, but then I realized, once again, that fear is the ultimate self-sabotage. That even if my essay is foolish and stupid, even if one could say the same about my actions (feel free), I wrote it. I finished it. I tried. The not trying is what makes me despise myself. So, yeah. It makes me feel a little squeamish, but maybe that's a good thing.
So check out the first three Modern Love Rejects, by Samara O'Shea, Kiri Blakeley and Alisa Bowman, and submit your own!
So check out the first three Modern Love Rejects, by Samara O'Shea, Kiri Blakeley and Alisa Bowman, and submit your own!
Friday, April 22, 2011
friday favourites 22.04.11
it's friday again? yes it is and what's more, it's supposed to be a good friday, from what i'm told. of course, considering there was hail in montreal two days this week, you could be forgiven for any skepticism about how good things are. i always try to hold out and insist that i'm just getting impatient for spring, but this year, i have to admit, it's damn chilly for the midpoint of spring. all the more reason, i suppose, to appreciate the lovely weather we're enjoying today. i'm just as glad that my migraine resolved itself into nothing but a dull pressure behind my [still securely attached] right eye, so that i could actually look at the sun without screaming in pain. [although doing so probably would have allowed me to head straight to the front of the line at the grocery store.]
"kjjjjjjjjjgvc", says hecubus, which means "get on with it" in cat. and so i will get on with it, right away. here are some things that made me smile this week, even if going outside was at times very unpleasant.
getting back in the groove :: those close to me know that i've found it extraordinarily frustrating that i've been able to do extremely little creative writing in the time since we started working on conversion in 2009. i've worked on incomplete pieces [which are still incomplete], i've come up with outlines and ideas [which await flesh on their bones] and i've occasionally spat out a poem or very short story, but progress as been slow in coming. so this week, i felt good about the fact that for the first time in a very long time, i sat in front of my computer and wrote the first draft of a short story, start to finish. it's not an atmospheric excerpt, but a story, with a plot and characters and, for me at least, it's remarkably accessible. that's all i have to say at the moment, but, now that i've crossed that mental barrier, i feel a lot better about my own potential for getting things done in that department.
READ WHAT ELSE MADE IT WORTH GETTING OUT OF BED, PLUS SEE THIS WEEK'S CAT PIC!
adding an extension :: i've always wondering about the "pages" function that blogger offers as part of its service. it suggests that it's a place where one can have basic information like an "about me" page- basically something static, or something set to a single purpose, at least, that you want kept separate from the ongoing string of blog posts that you have going.
i don't have the least interest in adding an "about me" page here, because i figure anything you ever need or want to know about me can be gleaned just by reading through a few random blog posts, but there are some other ways in which separate pages can be put to good use. so far, i've added a couple and, i'm sure, there will be more to come. keep an eye peeled on the upper right hand corner of this page for news and for the time being, enjoy the pages on literature and lipstick i've already established.
zola jesus live :: i'm always uncomfortable when i get into things that seem to appeal to hipsters. not that there's any danger that i'll be mistaken for one of them- i weigh more than a hundred pounds, have never sported a mustache and there are very few things i enjoy because of their ironic value. however, ever since i first heard ms. jesus playing in a record store, i've had to admit that the hipsters might have got this one right. plus, of course, she did a split release with burial hex, one of the most unnerving, beautiful and under-appreciated acts around.
listening to her recorded work, i notice that my preference is markedly towards her early material, which is noisier and grittier, as opposed to the better-known "stridulum" releases, where the production is cleaned up and the results are a little too sparse and stripped down for my liking. however, i was curious to see her live this week. [i missed her first show in montreal because it was the same night as swans were playing- thank you so much pop montreal for doing that to me two years in a row.] i did not like the idea of having to see her at il motore, since my only experience was of sound so bad that i ended up fleeing well before the act i came to see took the stage, but i managed to score a place on the guest list, and it's just not right to turn down a free show. turns out to have been a damn fine decision.
her live set up involves several band members- keyboardists, a violin player and a drummer intent on pounding his kit through to the centre of the earth- and the lady herself is so unbelievably petite as to almost get physically lost amidst the action. until she starts to sing. it's apparent from her albums that her voice is a force to be reckoned with, but the sheer power she projects is almost unbelievable- no autotuning, no processing, just a really strong, disciplined voice and a group of remarkably well-written songs. i enjoy some of her recorded material, but i can say for certain that none of it compares to seeing her in the flesh. a night well spent.
good advice :: move over, agony aunts, and prepare for some brutal truth courtesy of an uncompromising uncle. william bennett's dear uncle william "advice column" posts are currently among my favourite reading.
for the coming week, there are a few things that i'm looking forward to. first, i'll be spending a chunk of my day tomorrow exercising my long-dormant protest muscles in front of city hall [with other people, i hope] in order to call attention to the shameful record of the berger blanc since it won the city's contract as its "animal control agency". it's part of an ongoing campaign aimed to get mayor gerald tremblay to revoke the contract and, hopefully, to have charges leveled against those directly and indirectly responsible for the for-profit orgainsation's outright cruelty and dereliction of duty. the protest is scheduled for 1 p.m. tomorrow [saturday april 23rd] and i would encourage anyone in the montreal area to be there.
and since i've gotten the ball rolling this week, i'm looking forward to putting more time into writing. so who knows, maybe i'll have another story completion as a friday favourite next week... nah, i don't want to repeat myself. i'm sort of hoping that i figure out a way to work my bizarre "eye" dream into a piece of fiction, preferably one that doesn't create a feedback loop by giving me nightmares.
on a slightly more fun and irresponsible tip, i'm looking forward to the return of nevermore tomorrow night, a chance for some of us old codgers to edge our walkers onto the dance floor and shaky our frilly, black-clad booty.
well, it's friday evening, which means that my upstairs neighbours are beginning their weekly tryouts for olympic pogo jumping, so i'm off to find my gun or my pills, whichever i come across first. fare thee well, my pretties, have a good one, enjoy yourselves and, as always, thanks for reading. this week's cat is our little lady, julia, looking like the perfect princess she knows she is.
"kjjjjjjjjjgvc", says hecubus, which means "get on with it" in cat. and so i will get on with it, right away. here are some things that made me smile this week, even if going outside was at times very unpleasant.
getting back in the groove :: those close to me know that i've found it extraordinarily frustrating that i've been able to do extremely little creative writing in the time since we started working on conversion in 2009. i've worked on incomplete pieces [which are still incomplete], i've come up with outlines and ideas [which await flesh on their bones] and i've occasionally spat out a poem or very short story, but progress as been slow in coming. so this week, i felt good about the fact that for the first time in a very long time, i sat in front of my computer and wrote the first draft of a short story, start to finish. it's not an atmospheric excerpt, but a story, with a plot and characters and, for me at least, it's remarkably accessible. that's all i have to say at the moment, but, now that i've crossed that mental barrier, i feel a lot better about my own potential for getting things done in that department.READ WHAT ELSE MADE IT WORTH GETTING OUT OF BED, PLUS SEE THIS WEEK'S CAT PIC!
adding an extension :: i've always wondering about the "pages" function that blogger offers as part of its service. it suggests that it's a place where one can have basic information like an "about me" page- basically something static, or something set to a single purpose, at least, that you want kept separate from the ongoing string of blog posts that you have going.
i don't have the least interest in adding an "about me" page here, because i figure anything you ever need or want to know about me can be gleaned just by reading through a few random blog posts, but there are some other ways in which separate pages can be put to good use. so far, i've added a couple and, i'm sure, there will be more to come. keep an eye peeled on the upper right hand corner of this page for news and for the time being, enjoy the pages on literature and lipstick i've already established.
zola jesus live :: i'm always uncomfortable when i get into things that seem to appeal to hipsters. not that there's any danger that i'll be mistaken for one of them- i weigh more than a hundred pounds, have never sported a mustache and there are very few things i enjoy because of their ironic value. however, ever since i first heard ms. jesus playing in a record store, i've had to admit that the hipsters might have got this one right. plus, of course, she did a split release with burial hex, one of the most unnerving, beautiful and under-appreciated acts around.
 |
| jesus lives. and sings. |
her live set up involves several band members- keyboardists, a violin player and a drummer intent on pounding his kit through to the centre of the earth- and the lady herself is so unbelievably petite as to almost get physically lost amidst the action. until she starts to sing. it's apparent from her albums that her voice is a force to be reckoned with, but the sheer power she projects is almost unbelievable- no autotuning, no processing, just a really strong, disciplined voice and a group of remarkably well-written songs. i enjoy some of her recorded material, but i can say for certain that none of it compares to seeing her in the flesh. a night well spent.
good advice :: move over, agony aunts, and prepare for some brutal truth courtesy of an uncompromising uncle. william bennett's dear uncle william "advice column" posts are currently among my favourite reading.
for the coming week, there are a few things that i'm looking forward to. first, i'll be spending a chunk of my day tomorrow exercising my long-dormant protest muscles in front of city hall [with other people, i hope] in order to call attention to the shameful record of the berger blanc since it won the city's contract as its "animal control agency". it's part of an ongoing campaign aimed to get mayor gerald tremblay to revoke the contract and, hopefully, to have charges leveled against those directly and indirectly responsible for the for-profit orgainsation's outright cruelty and dereliction of duty. the protest is scheduled for 1 p.m. tomorrow [saturday april 23rd] and i would encourage anyone in the montreal area to be there.
and since i've gotten the ball rolling this week, i'm looking forward to putting more time into writing. so who knows, maybe i'll have another story completion as a friday favourite next week... nah, i don't want to repeat myself. i'm sort of hoping that i figure out a way to work my bizarre "eye" dream into a piece of fiction, preferably one that doesn't create a feedback loop by giving me nightmares.
on a slightly more fun and irresponsible tip, i'm looking forward to the return of nevermore tomorrow night, a chance for some of us old codgers to edge our walkers onto the dance floor and shaky our frilly, black-clad booty.
well, it's friday evening, which means that my upstairs neighbours are beginning their weekly tryouts for olympic pogo jumping, so i'm off to find my gun or my pills, whichever i come across first. fare thee well, my pretties, have a good one, enjoy yourselves and, as always, thanks for reading. this week's cat is our little lady, julia, looking like the perfect princess she knows she is.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
something's afoot!
i'll bet you're thinking this post is going to be about shoes aren't you?
never judge a blog post by it's title! this post is to call your attention to the fact that i've started to add not-so-secret pages to the blog, which will be dedicated to specific things. the first one i've established "let me tell you a story" will feature a serialised story- a new installment every week (something i tried before, but it sort of came off the rails). you can follow along with the adventures of heroine adela and give me feedback. i'll be keeping the excerpts fairly short, so that they're easier to read on screen.
i plan to have more of these pages up and running shortly and they will all appear in the same place- on the upper right hand part of the home page, just under the "about me" section.
hope you enjoy the first serial installment and, hey, if you come up with any suggestions for a title, please pass them on. this story has lived a long life just being called "the serial". it deserves better.
 |
| please, come right in |
i plan to have more of these pages up and running shortly and they will all appear in the same place- on the upper right hand part of the home page, just under the "about me" section.
hope you enjoy the first serial installment and, hey, if you come up with any suggestions for a title, please pass them on. this story has lived a long life just being called "the serial". it deserves better.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
now read this!
issue 11 of paraphilia magazine is out, with its customary pastiche of art, interviews and literature from the new frontiers. always a dense, challenging and rewarding read, this installment also includes "hollow earth" a short story from yours truly. this is not one that has seen the light of day before, although it has been kicking around my hard drive for a while. on a personal level, i find it probably the most depressing thing i've ever written [although there are some pretty strong contenders]. it's also possible that that's just my subjective thoughts as well.
here's a little excerpt ::
There’s a look of anxiety that runs behind his eyes when he talks about waking up, suddenly lucid and alone in the middle of the night. The power had been knocked out by a storm and his heat was off. He could see clouds above him when he exhaled and then, as the congestion in his chest became worse, he watched the clouds grow wispy and insubstantial, becoming thinner no matter how hard he pushed to get air out. He realized that there was no air in him and lay there imagining that his lungs had frozen when the power went off, that he was gradually dying from the inside out, blood growing thick and heavy, icicles forming on the inside of his stomach cavity. He didn’t tell the story as a frightening one, he told it as a joke- how funny it was that he had been so out of it. But the fear was in there, peering out at us, begging for help through his muddy eyes.
to rest, just follow the link above and feel free to send me feedback.
the paraphilia site also now offers books by some of their regular contributors. and if my particular story tickles your fancy, you can always pick up a copy of interference, an anthology featuring a handful of others.
thanks for reading!
[image is unrelated, just something i thought went with the story.]
here's a little excerpt ::
There’s a look of anxiety that runs behind his eyes when he talks about waking up, suddenly lucid and alone in the middle of the night. The power had been knocked out by a storm and his heat was off. He could see clouds above him when he exhaled and then, as the congestion in his chest became worse, he watched the clouds grow wispy and insubstantial, becoming thinner no matter how hard he pushed to get air out. He realized that there was no air in him and lay there imagining that his lungs had frozen when the power went off, that he was gradually dying from the inside out, blood growing thick and heavy, icicles forming on the inside of his stomach cavity. He didn’t tell the story as a frightening one, he told it as a joke- how funny it was that he had been so out of it. But the fear was in there, peering out at us, begging for help through his muddy eyes. to rest, just follow the link above and feel free to send me feedback.
the paraphilia site also now offers books by some of their regular contributors. and if my particular story tickles your fancy, you can always pick up a copy of interference, an anthology featuring a handful of others.
thanks for reading!
[image is unrelated, just something i thought went with the story.]
Friday, March 4, 2011
3 Reasons I Don't Give Feedback on Rejected Submissions
Read them at The Nervous Breakdown
Recently, I've noticed an uptick in authors asking for a critique of the stories I've rejected from my anthologies. Most of them ask politely, and I send back the shortest reply I can explaining that I have a rule against giving any sort of critique. This latest round of requests made me wonder if perhaps I was being too harsh, but then I realized that there are very good reasons for me to refuse. Here are the top three:
Time
Keep reading at The Nervous Breakdown
Recently, I've noticed an uptick in authors asking for a critique of the stories I've rejected from my anthologies. Most of them ask politely, and I send back the shortest reply I can explaining that I have a rule against giving any sort of critique. This latest round of requests made me wonder if perhaps I was being too harsh, but then I realized that there are very good reasons for me to refuse. Here are the top three:
Time
Keep reading at The Nervous Breakdown
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Can't Think Straight author Kiri Blakeley on professional jealousy
I liked this column by Kiri Blakeley on professional jealousy, such as bookstore placement of Rachel Shukert's books (my sex column tomorrow is on jealousy regarding relationships) - it's funny because I'm jealous that her publisher got her video of her reading at In The Flesh posted on Barnes & Noble while Amazon basically has ignored my Passion video that I had recut just for them. But then I tell myself that the two are unrelated, and that it's true, there is literally not a thing I can do about that, except choose whether or not making book trailers is worth it financially in future. Here's what Kiri had to say:
When it comes to other women, however, I merely ask myself the questions. I don’t have the answers. Why one person gets something that you don’t is entirely out of our control the vast majority of the time, and there have been plenty of times I have accomplished something that other writers haven’t. Somewhere, some woman might even be thinking, “Why does that Kiri Blakeley get to rant on Forbes and I don’t?”
Women, however, are not supposed to be jealous of other women. It’s petty, it’s immature, it’s damaging to the notion of sisterhood. Men don’t get jealous of each other—men give each other jobs. Men don’t get “jealous,” they get “healthily competitive.”
But I say hoo-ha to all of that. Let’s call it what it really is.
“Jealousy, if channeled positively, can do wonders,” says Hannah Seligson, author of New Girl On the Job: Advice From the Trenches. Seligson, for example, was jealous of people who got their bylines in the New York Times (the newspaper of record also seems to be the newspaper of bitter envy). So Seligson made it her goal to get her name in there too. Eventually, she became a regular Times contributor.
And if you missed it, you can read my interview with Kiri Blakely at SexIs.
When it comes to other women, however, I merely ask myself the questions. I don’t have the answers. Why one person gets something that you don’t is entirely out of our control the vast majority of the time, and there have been plenty of times I have accomplished something that other writers haven’t. Somewhere, some woman might even be thinking, “Why does that Kiri Blakeley get to rant on Forbes and I don’t?”
Women, however, are not supposed to be jealous of other women. It’s petty, it’s immature, it’s damaging to the notion of sisterhood. Men don’t get jealous of each other—men give each other jobs. Men don’t get “jealous,” they get “healthily competitive.”
But I say hoo-ha to all of that. Let’s call it what it really is.
“Jealousy, if channeled positively, can do wonders,” says Hannah Seligson, author of New Girl On the Job: Advice From the Trenches. Seligson, for example, was jealous of people who got their bylines in the New York Times (the newspaper of record also seems to be the newspaper of bitter envy). So Seligson made it her goal to get her name in there too. Eventually, she became a regular Times contributor.
And if you missed it, you can read my interview with Kiri Blakely at SexIs.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Building a personal brand as a writer and living up to the best of your Evil Plans
Funnily enough, on a weekend when I decided to embrace Hugh MacLeod's brilliant new book Evil Plans: Having Fun on the Road to World Domination, which spoke to me about not being afraid and letting my fears derail me from living up to my potential (and flaking on $1,000 assignments!), and write about how in 1999 I was a failed law student with no clue what to do with my life and now, I'm, well, a writer and blogger and editor and event organizer, I came across this post on building a personal brand as a writer by Lisabet Sarai:
In the realm of erotica, I consider Rachel Kramer Bussel an example of effective brand-building. Pretty much anyone who reads erotica will be familiar with the dozens of anthologies she has edited, many focused on kink or fetishes. Rachel builds her brand not only through her publications but also through readings, parties and an amazingly active presences in the blogosphere. Just say “cupcake” or “spanking” to any erotica reader and Rachel's name is likely to come to mind.
Hopefully you will soon be able to read 5,000+ words from me on this very topic; well, in a memoir form as I figure out how it was I got here and what happens when "sex writers grow up." More on that when...I get the word, hopefully the good word.
I may write more about Evil Plans, especially the chapter on why it's good to have people hate you. It, along with MacLeod's previous book, Ignore Everybody, are essential shots in the arm for those of us who are waffling about how to embrace being unique. I have that problem all the time; I want to do things the way everyone else is doing them. I assume that they know something I don't, rather than that we are each pursuing our work and life goals in our own ways. I think because I never had a "plan," just started sending out erotica stories, and grew this life organically, I often am unsure about how wholeheartedly to embrace it, how to figure out where I've erred from where I've found success (or only seeing the former). So I'm trying hard to work on figuring out what I do know and writing those things down while being open to learning, learning, learning. Do visit Gaping Void to see more of his work, and sign up for a free daily cartoon and lots of both inspiration and practical tips on how to best utilize your creativity for your own benefit, rather than letting your fears (of success or failure) defeat you.
My review:
In the same concise but profound manner he used in Ignore Everybody, Hugh MacLeod gives artists and businesspeople a way of looking at the world that values them and their own talent, providing examples and encouragement on the path to building your own evil plan. He doesn't just throw random pronouncements out, but backs them up with examples from his own career and those of others he's known or read about who've forged their own paths, along with examples of his business-card cartoons.
Some of the biggest lessons I got out of this book is that it's okay, welcome, in fact, to have enemies; doing so means you are getting known, and provoking people. I also got the message that enacting your evil plan is not "easy," and does mean forging ahead and not following the pack. I've struggled with trying to figure out how to be "unique" and true to myself while also, to some degree, not wanting to rock the boat, and I read this book to try to gain some insight into how to proceed with a career that combines various tasks (editing, writing, blogging, event organizing) and building a personal "brand" (even though I kindof hate that word when applied to myself). I think I've been the opposite of a "waker" and am grateful to this book for waking me up to the possibilities, to facing the parts of writing that I love and going for them full-bore, rather than getting in my own way all the time. This is an excellent book for anyone looking for motivation, from someone who's lived it and gone on to succeed on his own terms.
In the realm of erotica, I consider Rachel Kramer Bussel an example of effective brand-building. Pretty much anyone who reads erotica will be familiar with the dozens of anthologies she has edited, many focused on kink or fetishes. Rachel builds her brand not only through her publications but also through readings, parties and an amazingly active presences in the blogosphere. Just say “cupcake” or “spanking” to any erotica reader and Rachel's name is likely to come to mind.
Hopefully you will soon be able to read 5,000+ words from me on this very topic; well, in a memoir form as I figure out how it was I got here and what happens when "sex writers grow up." More on that when...I get the word, hopefully the good word.
I may write more about Evil Plans, especially the chapter on why it's good to have people hate you. It, along with MacLeod's previous book, Ignore Everybody, are essential shots in the arm for those of us who are waffling about how to embrace being unique. I have that problem all the time; I want to do things the way everyone else is doing them. I assume that they know something I don't, rather than that we are each pursuing our work and life goals in our own ways. I think because I never had a "plan," just started sending out erotica stories, and grew this life organically, I often am unsure about how wholeheartedly to embrace it, how to figure out where I've erred from where I've found success (or only seeing the former). So I'm trying hard to work on figuring out what I do know and writing those things down while being open to learning, learning, learning. Do visit Gaping Void to see more of his work, and sign up for a free daily cartoon and lots of both inspiration and practical tips on how to best utilize your creativity for your own benefit, rather than letting your fears (of success or failure) defeat you.
My review:
In the same concise but profound manner he used in Ignore Everybody, Hugh MacLeod gives artists and businesspeople a way of looking at the world that values them and their own talent, providing examples and encouragement on the path to building your own evil plan. He doesn't just throw random pronouncements out, but backs them up with examples from his own career and those of others he's known or read about who've forged their own paths, along with examples of his business-card cartoons.
Some of the biggest lessons I got out of this book is that it's okay, welcome, in fact, to have enemies; doing so means you are getting known, and provoking people. I also got the message that enacting your evil plan is not "easy," and does mean forging ahead and not following the pack. I've struggled with trying to figure out how to be "unique" and true to myself while also, to some degree, not wanting to rock the boat, and I read this book to try to gain some insight into how to proceed with a career that combines various tasks (editing, writing, blogging, event organizing) and building a personal "brand" (even though I kindof hate that word when applied to myself). I think I've been the opposite of a "waker" and am grateful to this book for waking me up to the possibilities, to facing the parts of writing that I love and going for them full-bore, rather than getting in my own way all the time. This is an excellent book for anyone looking for motivation, from someone who's lived it and gone on to succeed on his own terms.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Having sex versus writing about sex
These days I'm not having sex, but I am still writing about it, via journalism, my SexIs Magazine column and lots of erotica. I thought this really interesting Alexis on the Sexes column by my friend Alexis McKinnis brought up a lot of good points, and is relevant no matter what subject you write about, though sex is especially fraught. How do you tell someone you're just not that into their writing when they're your friend? She also gave me some fabulous compliments, so thank you back! And Surrender is my 38th anthology - with the release of Obsessed, Women in Lust and Best Bondage Erotica 2012 later this year, I'll have over 40 anthologies out!
Just because someone has good sex doesn't mean he or she is able to skillfully write about it the morning after. I own bookshelves full of erotic short stories and novels, fiction and nonfiction, and I'd estimate approximately 10 percent of it is even worth rereading. I can't even imagine what a frustrating job someone like Rachel Kramer Bussel must have. She has edited nearly 30 anthologies, each packed with dozens of erotic short stories gleaned from hundreds of open-call submissions. I don't know how she's going to feel about me comparing her to a mainstream female porn star, but I'm about to, anyway: Imagine being subjected to mediocre to just plain bad sexual stimulation for hours and, if you're lucky, maybe something will get you off by the end of the workday. Rachel, if you're reading this, thank you for working so hard to make the world a better place.
Just because someone has good sex doesn't mean he or she is able to skillfully write about it the morning after. I own bookshelves full of erotic short stories and novels, fiction and nonfiction, and I'd estimate approximately 10 percent of it is even worth rereading. I can't even imagine what a frustrating job someone like Rachel Kramer Bussel must have. She has edited nearly 30 anthologies, each packed with dozens of erotic short stories gleaned from hundreds of open-call submissions. I don't know how she's going to feel about me comparing her to a mainstream female porn star, but I'm about to, anyway: Imagine being subjected to mediocre to just plain bad sexual stimulation for hours and, if you're lucky, maybe something will get you off by the end of the workday. Rachel, if you're reading this, thank you for working so hard to make the world a better place.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Novels and short stories in mental health and running terms according to John McCaffrey
From Bang the Keys author Jill Dearman's interview with John McCaffrey at the Barnes & Noble site - found via Jill's site bangthekeys.com:
JD: How is writing a novel different from writing a short story?
JM: I also work in the mental health field, and I often think that writing a novel is like being in long-term therapy, where you lay on the couch twice a week and sob about the time your mother made you wear a bib to school (not that that happened to me). Short story writing, on the other hand, is like being in crisis counseling – you just need a few sessions to get through a tough period. I’ll spin another analogy - I feel you must approach the writing of a novel with the determination of a marathon runner, prepare for it with diligence, and then once the gun sounds fight to the finish line. A short story is more a sprint, and a good sprinter runs on nerve just as much as legs. I also think that unlike a short story you can meander in a novel, take more sidetracks, since the reader has made a commitment to a longer work, and thus will conceivable go with you in your fictional travels – as long as you invite them nicely.
JD: How is writing a novel different from writing a short story?
JM: I also work in the mental health field, and I often think that writing a novel is like being in long-term therapy, where you lay on the couch twice a week and sob about the time your mother made you wear a bib to school (not that that happened to me). Short story writing, on the other hand, is like being in crisis counseling – you just need a few sessions to get through a tough period. I’ll spin another analogy - I feel you must approach the writing of a novel with the determination of a marathon runner, prepare for it with diligence, and then once the gun sounds fight to the finish line. A short story is more a sprint, and a good sprinter runs on nerve just as much as legs. I also think that unlike a short story you can meander in a novel, take more sidetracks, since the reader has made a commitment to a longer work, and thus will conceivable go with you in your fictional travels – as long as you invite them nicely.
Friday, February 4, 2011
3 things for you to read by Penelope Trunk, Susannah Breslin and Sarah Ockler
I've been meaning to start 2 new short daily posts here, one being "Tips," with a link to something I think is useful, and "5 Great Things About Today," which ideally I'd post every night as a way to keep me from sounding so morose, as I tend to do. Maybe tonight can be the first!
But before that, I wanted to share 3 quick links:
"Gold digging Web 2.0 style" by Penelope Trunk, who I mentioned in my "Is Social Media Ruining Your Sex Life?" column, and she commented and added that link.
In "I Got Downsized" at Thought Catalog, Susannah Breslin offers up five things she could possibly do to make money.
I'll leave you with "You're Not a Thing: 10 Anti-Insanity Tips for Writers by YA author Sarah Ockler, author of Twenty Boy Summer and Fixing Delilah - here's one of her tips, one I particularly needed to stop obsessing over why Amazon hasn't posted my Passion book trailer yet and a bunch of other things it seems like "everyone else" is doing:
Stop comparing. Unless you’re self-published, it’s unlikely that you’ll have accurate, up-to-date sales data at any given point. And what’s a good number, anyway? 1,000 or 10,000 or 100,000 copies sold might be phenomenal for one book, abysmal for another. This author got on a 10-city tour, that one got a dedicated Web site, this one got an ad in the NYT, that one is visiting every school in the country, this one got a 6-figure advance, that one got less… well? Every book is different and requires different marketing. You don’t always know what’s going on behind the scenes at your publisher, but even that doesn’t matter. Maybe you got the platinum edition marketing campaign or maybe you got utterly forgotten, but comparing anything to other authors doesn’t make the next book happen. I’ll tell you what it does make happen: crazy! Now stop looking at so-and-so’s Amazon rank and go work on your manuscript!
But before that, I wanted to share 3 quick links:
"Gold digging Web 2.0 style" by Penelope Trunk, who I mentioned in my "Is Social Media Ruining Your Sex Life?" column, and she commented and added that link.
In "I Got Downsized" at Thought Catalog, Susannah Breslin offers up five things she could possibly do to make money.
I'll leave you with "You're Not a Thing: 10 Anti-Insanity Tips for Writers by YA author Sarah Ockler, author of Twenty Boy Summer and Fixing Delilah - here's one of her tips, one I particularly needed to stop obsessing over why Amazon hasn't posted my Passion book trailer yet and a bunch of other things it seems like "everyone else" is doing:
Stop comparing. Unless you’re self-published, it’s unlikely that you’ll have accurate, up-to-date sales data at any given point. And what’s a good number, anyway? 1,000 or 10,000 or 100,000 copies sold might be phenomenal for one book, abysmal for another. This author got on a 10-city tour, that one got a dedicated Web site, this one got an ad in the NYT, that one is visiting every school in the country, this one got a 6-figure advance, that one got less… well? Every book is different and requires different marketing. You don’t always know what’s going on behind the scenes at your publisher, but even that doesn’t matter. Maybe you got the platinum edition marketing campaign or maybe you got utterly forgotten, but comparing anything to other authors doesn’t make the next book happen. I’ll tell you what it does make happen: crazy! Now stop looking at so-and-so’s Amazon rank and go work on your manuscript!
Thursday, January 13, 2011
I am not a creative badass, but I aspire to be
Ever since reading her essay in Marie Claire about her divorce from Elon Musk, I’ve been following Justine Musk, and even though I haven’t delved into her fiction yet, her blog is a constant source of inspiration. Lately I’ve been thinking so much about self-sabotage and what the source of it is for me, because it’s not any isolated incident. It’s a consistent, repeated process, a way of drawing myself back from the brink of success whenever it dares wave at me. I shrink away as if it’s something horrible, as if I don’t deserve it, and I think part of it for me is the fear of being different. That might sound ridiculous because, the fact is, by dint of doing what I do, by having dropped out of law school, a safe, seemingly easy but actually crazy hard path, and then not only writing about sex, but writing about my personal life, exposing truths and my flaws and my body along with my fears, I have chosen an unconventional path.
And I have a love/hate relationship with that path. I have trouble seeing the good in the things I do that are different. I am constantly looking for mentors and people to emulate, and sometimes it takes those very mentors coming to me and asking questions, or telling me they are proud of me, for me to unravel all of that not-so-deep-down self-hatred and realize that the unconventional path is not necessarily a bad one.
It’s confusing in so many ways, not least of which because there are no true roadmaps. I don’t necessarily feel like I’m floundering, but every once in a while I look around and think, “How the hell did I get here?” I really don’t know, and I’m back to being that girl who worked at 2 Park and got in trouble for wearing sneakers or talking on the phone. Sometimes, though I hated that job, I want to be that girl because she was anonymous. Much as I’d like to think I am, I’m not, not really. And that’s at the heart of my discomfort: It will never sound anything but self-aggrandizing to me to say I’m not anonymous. And of course a writer wants to be read; of course…and yet, not always. Not always with the level of scrutiny I am. Not always when the joy of creating something new from a blank page morphs into feeling like I need to defend not just my body of work, but myself. Not always when it creates a very clear disconnect between my “persona” and how I see myself.
Justine Musk writes in a post on how to be a creative badass*:
To produce good work, you need to dive beneath the surface of things. You need to “go there” in a way that we specifically train ourselves not to do in day-to-day life. We believe that if we reveal too much, we’ll expose ourselves as unworthy. Shameful. But it’s shame that keeps us isolated, silent, and disconnected from each other. Part of believing that you have something to say is flying in the face of all that. When you lean into what discomforts you, what scares you, you’re getting to the good, original stuff.
I get that, completely. I feel like sometimes I live and breathe that shame and have no idea how to get rid of it. It’s confusing because on the one hand I am go go go, trying to get people to write about me at, say, my college paper, where I was once rejected as a columnist, where I wrote letters to the editor, where I never ever ever thought I’d be writing about sex for a living. I am happy when I’m at the post office sending out dozens of copies of my new book; that feels healthy, familiar, something I know how to do: give things away. Or, to use a horrible word, marketing. Horrible because that is part of the “persona” and me, well, I like to think of it as creative, as taking a tool that the big people use, like Amazon Prime, and scaling it down to my level.
I am rambling, I’m aware, but my point is that I can see so clearly that there’s a moment, a moment I keep missing, where you have to push that shame aside. Where you have to, in order to succeed, truly not care and not want to be “normal.” And I’m really not sure I know how to do that. I know that I produced some work last year that I’m very proud of, that I went places I couldn’t have gone before. I wrote stories like “Espionage” and “Punching Bag.” Now I’m coming up with all sorts of titles that tickle me so much I flesh them out. I’m getting back to the non-fiction that is what I really want to be doing. But still there is a part of me that is always tempted to just hit delete, not just on this blog, but on this creature I’ve created who I can’t seem to get away from. She’s me but…not entirely. Maybe that’s why one of the people I love spending time with the most is one who’s created a truly new life for herself, one that is so far removed from what I could read about her online it’s like she’s two different people.
I know that there are plenty of people out there, because I know them, I’m friends with them, I’ve gotten to know them, who get that there is more to anyone than what you read about them online, who can make sense of the fact that someone like, um, me, might be fearless in some ways and scared as can be in others. I am working toward getting toward a place where I don’t want to be like everyone else, because even if I did, I think it’s too late for that. I can’t really put the sex writing genie back in the bottle and ultimately I don’t want to. That genie has opened so many doors for me and has also pushed me to grow and embrace this person I never expected to become. I want this to be the year I don’t fuck things up, the one year with no regrets around assignments, no burned bridges, no horror stories. Maybe not everything will work out, but it won’t be because I was so afraid of being different, looked at, noticed, that I didn’t try.
*I don't think it's a coincidence that this quote is from her instruction to "be vulnerable." See my "Be as vulnerable as you possibly can."
And I have a love/hate relationship with that path. I have trouble seeing the good in the things I do that are different. I am constantly looking for mentors and people to emulate, and sometimes it takes those very mentors coming to me and asking questions, or telling me they are proud of me, for me to unravel all of that not-so-deep-down self-hatred and realize that the unconventional path is not necessarily a bad one.
It’s confusing in so many ways, not least of which because there are no true roadmaps. I don’t necessarily feel like I’m floundering, but every once in a while I look around and think, “How the hell did I get here?” I really don’t know, and I’m back to being that girl who worked at 2 Park and got in trouble for wearing sneakers or talking on the phone. Sometimes, though I hated that job, I want to be that girl because she was anonymous. Much as I’d like to think I am, I’m not, not really. And that’s at the heart of my discomfort: It will never sound anything but self-aggrandizing to me to say I’m not anonymous. And of course a writer wants to be read; of course…and yet, not always. Not always with the level of scrutiny I am. Not always when the joy of creating something new from a blank page morphs into feeling like I need to defend not just my body of work, but myself. Not always when it creates a very clear disconnect between my “persona” and how I see myself.
Justine Musk writes in a post on how to be a creative badass*:
To produce good work, you need to dive beneath the surface of things. You need to “go there” in a way that we specifically train ourselves not to do in day-to-day life. We believe that if we reveal too much, we’ll expose ourselves as unworthy. Shameful. But it’s shame that keeps us isolated, silent, and disconnected from each other. Part of believing that you have something to say is flying in the face of all that. When you lean into what discomforts you, what scares you, you’re getting to the good, original stuff.
I get that, completely. I feel like sometimes I live and breathe that shame and have no idea how to get rid of it. It’s confusing because on the one hand I am go go go, trying to get people to write about me at, say, my college paper, where I was once rejected as a columnist, where I wrote letters to the editor, where I never ever ever thought I’d be writing about sex for a living. I am happy when I’m at the post office sending out dozens of copies of my new book; that feels healthy, familiar, something I know how to do: give things away. Or, to use a horrible word, marketing. Horrible because that is part of the “persona” and me, well, I like to think of it as creative, as taking a tool that the big people use, like Amazon Prime, and scaling it down to my level.
I am rambling, I’m aware, but my point is that I can see so clearly that there’s a moment, a moment I keep missing, where you have to push that shame aside. Where you have to, in order to succeed, truly not care and not want to be “normal.” And I’m really not sure I know how to do that. I know that I produced some work last year that I’m very proud of, that I went places I couldn’t have gone before. I wrote stories like “Espionage” and “Punching Bag.” Now I’m coming up with all sorts of titles that tickle me so much I flesh them out. I’m getting back to the non-fiction that is what I really want to be doing. But still there is a part of me that is always tempted to just hit delete, not just on this blog, but on this creature I’ve created who I can’t seem to get away from. She’s me but…not entirely. Maybe that’s why one of the people I love spending time with the most is one who’s created a truly new life for herself, one that is so far removed from what I could read about her online it’s like she’s two different people.
I know that there are plenty of people out there, because I know them, I’m friends with them, I’ve gotten to know them, who get that there is more to anyone than what you read about them online, who can make sense of the fact that someone like, um, me, might be fearless in some ways and scared as can be in others. I am working toward getting toward a place where I don’t want to be like everyone else, because even if I did, I think it’s too late for that. I can’t really put the sex writing genie back in the bottle and ultimately I don’t want to. That genie has opened so many doors for me and has also pushed me to grow and embrace this person I never expected to become. I want this to be the year I don’t fuck things up, the one year with no regrets around assignments, no burned bridges, no horror stories. Maybe not everything will work out, but it won’t be because I was so afraid of being different, looked at, noticed, that I didn’t try.
*I don't think it's a coincidence that this quote is from her instruction to "be vulnerable." See my "Be as vulnerable as you possibly can."
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
When "impossible" isn't just in quotes, but in your head
I blogged about my “Six Impossible Things Before 2012,” my version of New Year’s resolutions, but really ongoing, day-to-day life tasks that normal people seem to have accomplished, like not bouncing checks, that I haven’t mastered yet. I didn't title it that way, but in my head, "impossible" was in quotes, because if I truly believed those tasks were impossible, I wouldn't have set them for myself. They are fucking hard, is what they are, they often seem/feel impossible, but they are not truly impossible. I am so good at dooming myself to the worst case scenario that I forget that some people actually look to themselves to step up and create their own best case scenario, no matter how bad their present one is. I want to be like those people. This is a case where obviously actions speak louder than words; see the last paragraph of my essay, linked below. Do It Anyway indeed.
For my second piece at The Nervous Breakdown, "No Sugar in My Bowl, No $1,000 in My Pocket: The Art of Self-Sabotage," I wrote long (too long perhaps) about what happens when “impossible” is not in quotes, but when you self-sabotage yourself into impossibility. I tend to do it with the big pricey things—law school, big anthologies, while meanwhile, yes, writing for free or cheap, I’m totally there. I have many problems and I’m trying to own up to them and be a better person. Not there yet, but baby steps.
For my second piece at The Nervous Breakdown, "No Sugar in My Bowl, No $1,000 in My Pocket: The Art of Self-Sabotage," I wrote long (too long perhaps) about what happens when “impossible” is not in quotes, but when you self-sabotage yourself into impossibility. I tend to do it with the big pricey things—law school, big anthologies, while meanwhile, yes, writing for free or cheap, I’m totally there. I have many problems and I’m trying to own up to them and be a better person. Not there yet, but baby steps.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
"When I’m editing a piece, I think how can this be more true?"
I just finished reading Teresa Strasser's excellent memoir Exploiting My Baby: A Memoir of Pregnancy & Childbirth and will be posting a proper review soon, but I thought it was far and away one of the best parenting memoirs. I was going to say "right up there with Anne Lamott's Operating Instructions" and then almost didn't, because no, it's not like Operating Instructions in tone, but in gut honesty, in saying things that most other mommy memoirs aren't, Teresa is doing it. Like this part that I tabbed:
Breast-feeding easily is the equivalent of having a big dick--no one will admit how good it feels, because it's really arbitrary and in now way means one is more of a man--but when that baby just takes to the boob, no pain, no trouble, I feel like I have a huge, swinging dick. I may have ben so-so on nursing, and put off by all the wacky zealots who promote it, but I must admit, it fives me confidence.
I loved that analogy, and it also reminded me that I can't remember the last time I read a man writing honestly about penis size.
I loved what she told LAist:
I think writing is the only one of those three where I have a knack. I’m not the fanciest writer, but I think I’m able to be honest. When I’m editing a piece, I think how can this be more true? There’s something to be said for that even though my prose is pretty mediocre.
I'm very stuck with my writing lately - fiction, nonfiction. I have all these ideas but none of them seem to come to fruition and then I think, "That idea sucks." And I know part of it is just fear, cold, heart-clenching fear. There are so many things you're not supposed to say, and all those could've-should've essays I didn't write for the VIP anthologies, and now there's...today. Just hours for me and my computer and if I can motivate, the gym, because I'm also trying to lose 30 pounds, but that is another story. For now, I too want to know how to be more honest, in my fiction and my nonfiction. I'm so tired of my constantly questioning myself brain, my ways of talking myself out of everything until I'm left with nothing, no words, just blankness.
I'm also reading Dinty W. Moore's Crafting The Personal Essay: A Guide for Writing and Publishing Creative Non-Fiction and I like his approach, like that he takes even a phrase like "write what you know" and turns it on its head.
Breast-feeding easily is the equivalent of having a big dick--no one will admit how good it feels, because it's really arbitrary and in now way means one is more of a man--but when that baby just takes to the boob, no pain, no trouble, I feel like I have a huge, swinging dick. I may have ben so-so on nursing, and put off by all the wacky zealots who promote it, but I must admit, it fives me confidence.
I loved that analogy, and it also reminded me that I can't remember the last time I read a man writing honestly about penis size.
I loved what she told LAist:
I think writing is the only one of those three where I have a knack. I’m not the fanciest writer, but I think I’m able to be honest. When I’m editing a piece, I think how can this be more true? There’s something to be said for that even though my prose is pretty mediocre.
I'm very stuck with my writing lately - fiction, nonfiction. I have all these ideas but none of them seem to come to fruition and then I think, "That idea sucks." And I know part of it is just fear, cold, heart-clenching fear. There are so many things you're not supposed to say, and all those could've-should've essays I didn't write for the VIP anthologies, and now there's...today. Just hours for me and my computer and if I can motivate, the gym, because I'm also trying to lose 30 pounds, but that is another story. For now, I too want to know how to be more honest, in my fiction and my nonfiction. I'm so tired of my constantly questioning myself brain, my ways of talking myself out of everything until I'm left with nothing, no words, just blankness.
I'm also reading Dinty W. Moore's Crafting The Personal Essay: A Guide for Writing and Publishing Creative Non-Fiction and I like his approach, like that he takes even a phrase like "write what you know" and turns it on its head.