publishing

Twitching and Broken

Broken mirror (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What a day.

A friend sent me an email telling me today was a #pitmad day on Twitter. You know, one of those insane days in cyberspace where you condense the pitch for your story down to 140 characters (including the hashtag pitmad, spaces, and genre) in hopes of catching the eyes of a few participating agents. Truly, it’s insanity. Twitter pitching, I call it twitching. Did it once. No way no how was I doing it again. Especially not with Astonishing, a story that doesn’t lend itself to a brief tag line. I admit it, it’s a weird book with an unreliable narrator. Enticing when distilled like that, right? Except here I am, doing it. Came up with a fantastically meh pitch. I’ve tweeted it a few times. Sort of.

I thought it was going to be good that I had the doctor’s appointment for my back this afternoon. Yanno, so I wouldn’t obsess over the Twitching. Went to the office, spoke with the doctor, she tapped, she pushed, she pricked, she looked at my MRIs, then she shot little electric currents and needles through my legs and lower spine. Oh, the many, many ways I can twitch.

“So it hurts on your right side normally, yes?”

“No.”

“But it hurts on the right side now, too, yes?”

“No.”

“But you have blahblahblahdiscspinebulgenarrowheelnerve right side.”

“Nope, just down the left side.”

“Hmmm.” More looking, more needles, more electric currents. “You do have mwamwahmwahmwhahpbbt in the blah blah vertebrae and somethingsomething discs, and more mwhahahahwma sciatic nerve.”

I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure what she said was, “your back is fuuuucked up. Both sides.”

I left there with more prescriptions than I’ve ever been given. It’s the trifecta of back fuckedupedness, nerve, muscle, and spine. Those scripts are probably a good thing, because by the time I left my back felt as broken as it did a week ago. “We can also give you a shot right now, into the site, to see if that helps.”

“No thanks.”

One of the prescriptions is not covered by my insurance and way over budget. I’m saying no thanks to that one, too. I asked about getting back to my yoga routine, in addition to the physical therapy scrip. Sure, except for every stretch and position that actually works to get me in shape.

Hmm, do I go with broken and twitching but a better head space, or out of shape and upright but miserable? A tough call. I’m beginning to see the allure of one piece bathing suits and floaty wraps. And plastic surgery.

Meditation (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t Make Me Laugh

Seriously, it hurts. But I couldn’t stop myself from laughing a few times this morning. This is what I woke up to.

Feel like baking this morning?

The other night I made banana pancakes for dinner. Well actually, I made the batter and got them started, and then had Nerd Child make the majority, because I couldn’t stand upright to flip them. I also couldn’t reach to put the ingredients away, and haven’t paid enough attention to notice said ingredients were still on the counter.

Dumb freakin dogs. Why? I swear I feed those bozos every day, twice a day, and then they get treats multiple times per day in addition. 5:15 in the morning, I could barely walk, there was no way I could bend to sweep and wash the floors. And by no way, I mean physically no way. Over the years I’ve noticed the severity of many illnesses and injuries are contextual. In other words, if I had options, I’d have said I physically couldn’t get Flower Child to/from school the last couple of days. But there’s no choice, so in fact, I could and have done it, albeit slowly and painfully. But this? Even the thought of attracting roaches couldn’t get me to bend and stretch in the ways necessary to clean this up. Luckily Husband woke up when he heard me cursing, and got most of it.

Big Senile Dog went to his bed and kept his eyes away from mine, pretending he had nothing to do with it. Mmm hmm.

Who me? This isn’t flour, it’s umm, coke, yeah, it’s coke. The pugs down the hall threw this party and…

Ok. Now I’m on the couch, feet up and coffee in hand. Open my email and find a rejection for a query. Not just any rejection, but one that was so nice, personal, and friendly, I thought it was a request. Took me two times reading it through to realize it was, in fact, a rejection. I don’t think I’ve ever met this agent, it isn’t likely I wouldn’t remember, but maybe I have, the note seemed that friendly. Or maybe he follows Mrs Fringe.

I don’t know why it struck me as funny, but it did. Maybe it’s part of always being braced for “the worst,” as I go through the query process. Silly, because I have never experienced “the worst.” No one has ever responded to a query of mine in a way that was rude, disparaging, or questioned my abilities. And while I haven’t received any offers (yet!), I’m doing pretty well in terms of requests for more material.

This was turning out to be a banner day, and it wasn’t even 6am. Sometimes you really do have to laugh.

An hour later, Flower Child is awake and getting ready. And continuing a running conversation. The one where she tells me bits and pieces of her interactions at school. I’m continuing to pretend it’s possible to get socks on without bending.

“And you know what else he asked me.”

“Hmm, what did he ask you?”

“Is it true that white people don’t get cold? Why did he ask me that, what should I tell him?”

See what I mean about the universe conspiring, and having to laugh?

(Wo)Man Makes Plans

and God laughs. That’s the expression, right? I’m making plans anyway. Well, I’m thinking about making plans, and we’ll see what happens. There’s only so many days I can walk around sniveling before I can’t stand myself anymore.

Even Little Incredibly Dumb Dog looks bummed, and she truly is too dumb to be depressed. 😉

Several years ago it occurred to me that people need stuff to look forward to. This is a problem when you’re stuck in the endless grind of life on the Fringe. I came home from taking Flower Child to school yesterday morning to find that Big Senile Dog had gone out to the terrace while I was gone–my fault, I shouldn’t have left that door open–and torn into a bag of garbage that was left out there. Yanno, so they wouldn’t make a mess while I was out. Once upon a time he would have eaten everything in there, pistachio shells, tea leaves, and coffee grounds, while Little Incredibly Dumb Dog took care of the tissues and tea bags. She did eat all of the paper stuff, but. By now even he knows he can’t eat that stuff, so instead, all that crud was ground into and under the rubber flooring stuff I have down to protect the concrete. Fantastic.

No shame.

There I was, thinking about nothing to look forward to and how many years it’s been since I really had a day off. If you’re curious, it’s almost 19 years. Man Child will be 21 in a couple of weeks. Husband and I went to Aruba for a long weekend when MC was 2. 21 years since I had a day off *to myself.* And then I was thinking about submissions, querying, and Astonishing. The unpredictable nature of this business I’m trying to get myself into. Well, what can I realistically do about all of this? What is/can be within my control? Two plans conceived.

First, today is a #MSWL day on twitter. That’s when certain agents and editors post their “manuscript wish lists” under the hashtag MSWL, tweeting what they’d like to see come across their desks. I’m watching, in hopes of seeing magical realism, literary fiction, dark lit fic…anything that would reasonably seem like a potential match for Astonishing, and then I will query those agents. I hope. A lot of the agents expected to participate seem to be more focused on Young Adult, Middle Grade, New Adult, but I’m watching. The best part of this is no twitter pitching. I suck at Twitter. Seriously, I can’t quite get the hang of it. I’d blame my age, but that’s a blatant lie. Plenty of people my age and older who are twitter-savvy.

Second, I decided I’m going to go away for a couple of days when Big Senile Dog dies. By myself. No, his death isn’t imminent, but he is elderly and going. Could be a month, six months, two years, but it gives me something to look forward to and a chance to save my pennies. No, I can’t do this before he dies. The logistics of getting him and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog walked and taken care of, Flower Child taken care of, too much/too expensive. I mentioned this to Husband last night, I think he was horrified by my cold and calculated look at the future. The big non-secret is that he adores this dog he didn’t want more than any of us. Not enough to walk him, but adores him nonetheless.

For today, I’m going to watch the Twitter feed and create a playlist for my little eventual trip. That’s the plan, anyway.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JljT3f8uV1g

Mid-Winter Break

Even the beasts don’t want to be bothered until it’s Spring.

Ahh, the February break. It began during the mid? late? ’70s during the energy crisis, to save oil and of course, save money. Every June I’m cursing it, when the school year doesn’t end, and my NY kiddo is still in school 1, 2, 3 weeks after everyone else’s kiddos. But in February, when it comes? Oh yeah, we need it. This year, with the winter being absolutely unrelenting, it feels particularly necessary.

On Saturday Flower Child had a field trip with her art class. It was cold and flurrying and I had a couple of hours to myself, so I went to Loehmann’s to see if there was anything left. Not much of interest within my budget, but there were a good number of bags/purses left that were reasonable once all the discounts were applied. I saw a somewhat unattractive but neat laptop case. Predictably, I couldn’t decide if it was the right size for my laptop. But I did think about the purse I’ve been carrying, the way everything has been getting a little (ok a lot) wet with all the snow. So I saw a larger bag that closed and decided to get it. Even on the street it’s hard to find a bag for twenty bucks anymore. This store has never been known for its fabulously helpful sales staff. But now, with the certain unemployment ahead and empty racks, all bets are off. The staff seemed to divide into two camps, those who were more relaxed and nicer than I’ve experienced in there, and those who decided the time is right to lose their filter. At the register I was paying for the bag, the cashier next to the one ringing me up looked at it. She sucked through her teeth (back in my middle school days, that sound/gesture was equivalent to throwing down a gauntlet).

“That looks fake.”

I laughed. What a moment. I told her that was good, since I normally buy my bags from the guys selling knock-offs on the street.

Knock-off?

After I dumped my shit from the old bag into the new one, I was online and followed a link from somewhere to youtube. I don’t remember what the original video was, but on the side of the screen was a link to Susan Boyle’s audition for Britain’s Got Talent. You know the one, “I Dreamed a Dream.” I’ve already seen this clip several times, but it’s a beautiful song, she has a lovely voice, and I clicked on it. Three minutes into the video, my eyeballs were leaking. A connection to this Susan Boyle singing that song at that moment, taking a breath and her shot with her unstylish dress and snark to defend against the expectations of who she should be based on where she is (was, she’s surely in a better spot now). For people with advantages, 40 might be the new 30, but for the rest of us…well.

I’ve begun to query Astonishing. Slowly, but I’m moving forward. I’ve even gotten a few “bites.” (Requests to see the manuscript) It’s a slow, often frustrating process filled with ups and downs and no guarantees. Many agents have adopted a “no response means no” policy. Except as the querier, you don’t know exactly when to assume it’s a no. Agents are flooded with queries on a daily basis, so even if they say 6 weeks on their website, that could mean 8 weeks, or 10 weeks, or 12 weeks. There’s an amazing, delicious charge when you open an email and instead of seeing “Dear Author, Due to the Subjective blahblahblah” you read “Dear Mrs Fringe, I was intrigued…please send me…” Squee! Now hurry up and wait. But don’t hold your breath, it’s still a long, uncertain road in between requests for more material and an offer of representation. And that is far from the second leg, when the agent queries editors–hopefully resulting in a sale to a publisher.

The general wisdom of the internets and writing groups everywhere is to begin a new project as soon as you begin querying. Meh. I’m taking a break. I have an idea that I will likely start playing with at some point, but for now, I’m taking a breath and paying some attention to…yanno, the other areas of my life. Being a woman of 40,000 years, I’ve got other areas. Being a woman of 40,000, I know myself enough to know taking a break doesn’t mean I’ll never write again, never find the discipline again. Being a woman of 40,000, I’m not obsessing about those queries. Do I think about them? Of course. Do I have spurts of ohmyGodwhenamIgoingtohearback? Yup. And then I notice the spots on the bathroom mirror, think about how long its been since I gave Flower Child a manicure, remember how good it feels to read for pleasure, and take care of some of those things. I don’t write just to write, I write when I have a story to tell. I write when I’ve got the energy and focus to find the correct words–regardless of how long it takes to find them.

I watched Susan Boyle and leaked a little bit and then felt better than I have in days. The odds are long and not in my favor, but I do have talent, I’ve worked and continue to work on craft, and the possibility is there.

All the Cool Kids Are Doing It

pole dance studio (Photo credit: wwphotos)

But I’m not talking about pole dancing. I’ve seen several interesting blog posts recently discussing blogging, inviting readers to talk about who they are, why they blog, what their blogs focus on. Maybe WordPress threw the idea out there, offered a challenge, I don’t know. It’s Sunday morning and the beasts woke me up too early so I’ll jump on the bandwagon, too tired to be clever on my own. Because in a way, blogging isn’t so different from pole dancing. “Look at me, check out this nifty spin, ooh, Mister, would you throw a dollar my way–I’ll give you a peek under another layer.”

There was a recent discussion on the writer’s forum about blogging. The profitability or lack thereof, return on investment, etc. I think the conclusion was that author’s blogs aren’t worth (financially) the time and work required to keep them going. I didn’t participate in the discussion, but I read, and I’m thinking about it. I don’t blog because I’m an author, I’m not selling anything. No book being hawked, no freelancing. Sure, if I ever sell a book I’ll post about it, add a link so the curious and flush can purchase it.

Buy More Stuff, Black Friday 2008 (Photo credit: Michael Holden)

A lot of writers, published and unpublished, also run blogs. Many of them blog about writing. How to. I have to admit, I find the vast majority of writing blogs boring. Is that awful to put into the foreverness that is the internet? Sorry. Doesn’t mean they’re bad. It’s subjective, after all (my favorite song). Maybe I’m delusional, but I don’t think I need to read 8000 regurgitated versions of THE FIRST FIVE PAGES, ON WRITING, or THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE. I own all three, have read them, reread them, dissected them many times.

I follow several writer’s blogs but most are talking about more than writing. They’re fun or touching or snarky, discuss a personal journey, or downright silly. They represent the person blogging. To me, that’s what blogging is, personal. I also follow a few agent/editor’s blogs–those are different, meant to inform by those who actually know what they’re talking about–and still, good reads that offer a sense of who the individual is. Or at least the persona fronting the blog.

Mrs Fringe is not only not a writing blog, I don’t consider it an “author’s blog.” I’m a blogger who also writes fiction. When the coffee grounds appear in just the right pattern and I’m offered a contract I don’t expect I’ll sell 750,000 copies as a result of this blog. I’m pretty sure that’s about what I’d need to sell to in order to say the hours spent on blogging (writing posts, responding to comments, reading other people’s posts and commenting on theirs) were monetarily worth it.

But I don’t blog as a marketing tool. I blog because it’s fun, it’s a release, I’ve made and continue to make fabulous connections with other bloggers–many of whom have nothing to do with the world of writing or publishing. And when I think about it, I don’t consider my time here in Fringeland as time I should be spending working on my fiction or wasted words. It’s rejuvenating. And when I am spending a lot of hours writing, I don’t spend a lot of hours on blogging.

If I’m on the pole it’s at home in my raggedy old yoga pants, no dollars in sight. Of course I hope that somehow, some way, the time spent blogging will provide a boost to my yet-to-be-established writing career. But that isn’t why I do it.

What about you? Do you blog for professional reasons? Marketing? Display your art? The opportunity to make connections? Be positive? Spread the Word? The chance to anonymously scream out all the suckage in your life? And if you aren’t a blogger, but you’re a reader of blogs, what draws you in and keeps you coming back?

Blog Machine (Photo credit: digitalrob70)

Poetic Meltdown

Shooting for the Moon, but not quite focused

I’ve been trying to get a good photo of the moon from my terrace. As yet unsuccessful, but still trying. I took a few shots last night and when I was uploading them today, I realized that in some ways this photo nails what I’ve been feeling and thinking these last several days. A little further away than I’d like, not as sharp as I’d like, out and visible just a little too early.

Writing, working on the WIP. I’m getting close to the end, but it still feels very far away. Further than it actually is. And I’m antsy about it. But if I’m honest, I’m also totally and completely excited. So I’m doing exactly what you aren’t supposed to do, obsessing over my belief that this is the ONE.

I believe it, and I shouldn’t. It’s good. I think it’s really good. I think it’s good enough to happen. But is it marketable? Is it marketable enough? I fucking hope so, but I’m not an agent or a publisher. And it’s magical realism, a genre that makes most people say “huh?” when I mention it. Umm, surrealist fiction, sort of. The conversation only gets more jumbled when the other person asks what it’s like, and the only authors I can think of who are known for magical realism are authors no one of the unwashed and unpublished persuasion should ever compare themselves to. Gabriel Garcìa Màrquez? Isabel Allende? Salman Rushdie? Paulo Coelho? Toni Morrison? Umm, it’s weird. *I am not trying to suggest my writing is up there with the aforementioned authors. It’s the style/sub-genre of literary fiction.

I should be cool. Tattoo all the stats and odds against me across my forehead while I continue writing and face a mirror, and know that this might or might not be the ONE. In the interest of balancing reality and dreams, I’ve been working on the query letter. Another shouldn’t. This one–I shouldn’t hate query letters. They’re a tool, one of a few used to catch an agent’s eye. But I do hate them, because I’m not very good at them, and so I figured it would be a good idea to start working on this well in advance of sending any out. Less pressure. But really, looking at a blank document and typing “Query” across the top, all I want to say is this:

Pretty sure that would be the ultimate cliche. Would that change it from cliche to kitsch? Hmmm. I’ve been getting some feedback–questions and thoughts–from several excellent, skilled query writers. I really want to stomp my feet and say well fine, you write it for me. Except a) that isn’t cool, and b) I would be even less happy with what any of them wrote than with what I come up with. I have no doubts what they came up with would be enticing and fantabulous, but it wouldn’t sound like my “voice,” or capture the tone in Astonishing.

Queries are always tricky beasts, and I’m having a particularly tough time capturing the right notes in this one. One thing keeps sticking in my head. I already tortured my buddy kk whining about this. I can’t whine to Husband, his response is “just write, you lunatic you.” OK, he doesn’t actually say that last part, but I can see him thinking it.

Your turn, Fringelings! A couple of people used the word “poetic” in reference to what I wrote in the query–and I know that I still haven’t hit the right note. Poetic sounds suspiciously like a polite substitute for “purple.” For any readers who aren’t writers, “purple prose” is the phrase for overwritten, melodramatic scenes, usually stated with a sneer. The manuscript is not purple. Descriptive, but not purple. I’ve been happy with the feedback I’ve received so far on Astonishing itself, and much of my feeling pleased centers around a few readers using terms like “clear,” and “clarity.” (And squirm, but that’s a Mrs Fringe thing, I love it when a reader really feels the scene, mwahahaha) Clarity is important in any writing, but when I’m writing lit fic, it’s probably the biggest compliment I could receive.

I wrote poetry a million years ago, in my angsty teen years. In my mind I was Anne Sexton. In reality, I was more like Patti Smith circa 1977 at the end of a show, angry and sweaty and wanting to make. my. fucking. point.

I’m nervous. Because I do believe Astonishing is The Right One, at the Right Time, written with the Right Words. God knows I spend hours reading and rereading and taking out the Wrong Words.

Dear Agent,

Please read my manuscript. It’s better than my query.

Thank you,

Mrs Fringe

Cover of Anne Sexton

Wednesday is Self Pity Day!

Red Wine Cheese Plate @ Artisan Wine & Cheese Cellars (Photo credit: Lehigh Valley, PA)

Yesterday I had a decent writing day. 1000 words added to Astonishing, 400 probably salvageable. I intended to have another decent day today. Derailed.

First, I have to mull. And think. And obsess. I’m debating whether or not to include a seksy time scene in the chapter after this next one, which will influence what and how I write this one. Make sense? Obviously, this makes playing online the best use of my time. Plus, there’s the whole Nerd Child left to go back to school this morning and I’m going to miss him terribly. Yes, yes, he’ll be back in under three weeks, but still.

I was on the writer’s forum, and there was an interesting discussion thread going. The OP (original poster) is someone whose posts I always enjoy, sometimes thought provoking and often funny. A master of self deprecating humor, and hey, I’m a New Yawkah, no one appreciates self deprecating humor as much as we do. Add in the tortured writer thing, perfection.

I don’t often participate in these serious discussion threads. Everyone, including me, gets all touchy–or worse, touchy feely–and then I sniffle because someone on the internetz hurt my feelings, sniffling leads to crying, crying leads to a headache. I now have a fucking migraine roughly the size of Detroit.

English: A bottle of Excedrin’s migraine formula. Taken by myself today with a FinePix S700. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

The discussion was about luck and how it factors into writing success, prompted by an interview with Alice Cooper having to do with luck and music. The usual forum thread commenced, some saying yes luck is a factor, others saying no, luck has nothing to do with it, cream rises to the top blahblahblah.

What do “we” want as writers? Readers, fame, glory, acclaim, money, contracts? The list can be long when using the royal we, but for individuals it varies. I’ve been vocal here in Fringeland about my desires, I’d like readers and a dollar.

Why did I post on that thread? Clearly I haven’t felt shitty enough about myself and my writing this week, and after all it is self-pity day, so I chimed in with a thoughtful and eloquent whine speaking for myself and using supporting details and anecdotes about how I call bullshit on the idea that luck isn’t a factor. Not the only factor, but certainly a factor. If you include timing as part of luck, it becomes that much greater.

In my opinion it is both dismissive and disrespectful to state otherwise.

Don’t even think of acknowledging the rest of life, and any responsibilities that may sometimes need to take precedence. Heh. If you’re a real writer, you write, read, and submit every single day no matter what. Screw those kids wanting to eat. Or needing medical care. You’re a writer. But not a writ-ah, because that would be pretentious.

The very next post after mine offered a lovely statement, “getting readers is easy.” Really? Well then, perhaps it’s time for Mrs Fringe to pack it in. Since it’s so easy and all, and I’ve been doing it for a long. fucking. time. at this point I should have thousands of followers for the blog, and gazillions more reading my fiction. And with all those readers and followers, both agents and editors should be begging me to sign contracts. Hrrumph.

I want to be clear, I don’t believe all is up to luck, or chance, or the rabbit’s foot I ran over with my banana seat bike. A factor, though? Yes.

Crying.. (Photo credit: Anders Ljungberg)

And Mrs Fringe Obsesses, doesn’t get much spookier!

smoke (Photo credit: DaleKav)

Yup, that’s me thinking.

Not that I’m thinking clearly or productively–overslept again this morning,–but still. I had a solid, productive day on the WIP yesterday, so I’m good.

You’ve all read my rambles about why I write, what I hope for, what I dream of. Bottom line for those who skip my angsty posts; I write to be read, to tell a story that will resonate with readers, in hopes of earning a dollar.

Over time, as my income and standards have dropped and my age has increased, I have fewer expectations, a more fractious relationship with hope. But whatever principles I’ve got left are still strong. Most of my writing related plans have remained the same. Write, edit, write, edit, edit, query. I added the blog–which has been fabulous–queries have changed from snail mail to email–also fabulous. I don’t get quite as excited as I used to with every query, have a much better understanding of how to not read too much into every little comment I receive.

Money cash (Photo credit: @Doug88888)

One principle that hasn’t changed for me–if anything, gotten firmer–is that writing is work, and therefore I want to be paid for anything published. Not that anything’s been published, but this means I’m a) still searching for an agent (publishing houses that accept unagented manuscripts tend to also not pay advances) and b) I don’t submit short stories to mags that don’t pay at least a nominal fee on acceptance. I’ve heard odds of having a piece accepted by one of the “big,” known literary mags are smaller than the odds of winning the lottery. I think I’m a good writer, but let’s face it, Mrs Fringe doesn’t have quite the draw of oh, say, Margaret Atwood or Salman Rushdie.

First publication rights are what most literary magazines want on acceptance, means the piece hasn’t been published anywhere else. Without those rights, they don’t want the piece. Why am I rambling about this crap again today? Well, I was thinking…what if I said fine, I’m willing to burn first publication rights on a story. Or two. Or three. Posting a story here on the blog counts as published when it comes to rights. So…what? If I post a story here, it won’t earn me a dollar. But it would get a story read by at least two of my five readers. I think. Maybe that story would resonate with one of the two. Maybe that would give me some affirmation. Maybe both would say wow Mrs Fringe really is full of suckage, I’m never going to buy anything of hers if she’s ever published. Maybe two of the three that didn’t read the story will say screw that pretentious Fringe, I’m going to unfollow her.

What do you think, Fringelings? I’m seriously asking your opinions and would love to hear your thoughts on this subject–whether you’re a writer, reader, or fellow wannabe.

I just don’t know. Seems like I don’t really have a lot to lose, and I could gain something. Maybe.

Happy Halloween Fringelings!

Where Are My Damned Marbles?

Marbles…. (Photo credit: kevinjay.)

I seem to have misplaced a few of mine. Ok, most of them. Have any to spare?

Here I sit, twitching. Is it because I’m pitching my manuscript on Twitter today, or the unreasonable quantity of espresso I’ve already consumed?

And just what am I doing on Twitter, anyway? I should be wearing purple and making dates with ladies who lunch. Shouldn’t I? I tendered my resignation to Hope a while back, so what is all this? I keep saying I give up, I accept my small life, my downward mobility. And yet, I keep writing. And trying. Not just querying, but things like this twitter pitch event.

Several months ago I saw a new lit mag being formed, looking for submissions for their debut issue. Reputable names involved, and the theme for the issue seemed perfect for a story I had in the files. Dusted it off, polished it up, submitted. Said lit mag seems to have disappeared into a black hole of cyberspace.

When we moved into our current apartment, I did so with the understanding I’ll be here until I have the big one, join ‘Lizabeth, and Husband slides my stiff cold body down the compactor chute. Funerals are so expensive, they’ve got to be bourgeois by now. I’d best stop gaining weight, it’s a narrow opening. So how come I keep watching HGTV, and studying real estate websites?

moon rises over the crumbling sand castle (Photo credit: sandcastlematt)

A long long time ago, in a land of hope and extreme gas shortages, there was a movie titled The End, starring Burt Reynolds and Dom DeLuise. It was a black comedy about a man (BR) trying to kill himself, who keeps screwing up, aided by a delusional mental patient (DD). Yeah, so I feel like the Reynolds character. If I had a cavity I’d probably be sucking down an ice cold milkshake. I’m supposed to have stopped this nonsense by now.

I’m a mother of three. Special needs/Medical Needs, plain old Growing Up Needs, they are my priority. That’s supposed to be enough, knowing I’ve done/am doing my best to raise three well adjusted, responsible people.

Husband is off today. Flower Child keeps hoping to see me packing the beach bag every time I get up. “Is Daddy off? Why is he dressed? Why aren’t you dressed? Are we going to the beach? Why is it clouds today? Why does it matter how many times you Twitter? Do you have an agent yet? Are we going to the beach?” But I’m glued to Twitter for the day.

I’m well aware of priorities, well aware of *what’s really important.* Health and well being of children, important. Mom’s dreams? Much further down the list. I should be crossing them off. Should have crossed them off long ago. I thought I did. I think it must be some kind of gag ink, those irritating fantasies of me-as-a-person keep reappearing.

My Year in Lists (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Writing ‘Roids

Tractor-trailer crash on I-95 (Photo credit: VaDOT)

Here’s the thing about writing, or being a fiction writer; with a very few well publicized exceptions, it’s a long, potholed, overcrowded road. Most of those overnight sensations don’t really make it to the bestseller lists overnight, it just seems that way to those standing in the bookstore deciding what to buy.

A lot of people think they want to be writers, but they don’t write. Or they don’t stick with it long enough to do the learning necessary to turn their work into something resembling a manuscript. Some give up after one or two manuscripts that don’t sell, or x number of rejections, or x amount of time. A lot of others do, and with work, perseverance, and luck they get published. And then there are the long haulers.

People like me, who haven’t “hit” for whatever reason, but have gotten just enough encouragement and positive feedback on their work to keep going. I don’t mean “my spouse likes it,” “my mom likes it,” “my third grade teacher told me I should be a writer,” or form rejections they’ve read and projected meaning into. But people who supposedly have knowledge and experience of writing and the publishing world have read their work and said “keep trying, you’ve got something.” And we do.

A long fucking haul. If you’re a long haul trucker, you know you’re going to be tired, might get caught in traffic jams that leave your bladder spasming, and screw up your schedule. But eventually, you’re going to reach your destination. And then you’ll load up and do it again.

English: 1918 advertisement for Jubolitoires (hemorrhoids) Français : Publicité pour les Jubolitoires, suppositoires anti-hémorroïdaires (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Hemorrhoids will just be part of the job, and you’ll learn to sleep when you can in the cab of the truck, drink battery acid masquerading as coffee, and make sure you’re always stocked up on Preparation H.

But writing isn’t long haul trucking, the analogy leaves more than a little gap. There’s no certain paycheck, no benefits, and no one pats you on the back in respect for honest and honorable work. Plenty of hemorrhoids, though. Swollen, throbbing, painful pustules that make you wince when you open that Word document. They come in the guise of writer’s block, rejection letters, plot holes, awkward expressions on the face of your significant other, and plain old moments of why-the-fuck-am-I-doing-this. Is it dishonorable to keep writing after x amount of time, or x amount of rejections? Is it dishonest? I’m not talking about people who say they write for themselves (God love you, but I’d rather earn my piles having another baby–and trust me, the last thing I want is any more babies), but those who continue to pursue publication.

If you’re another long hauler, please chime in here in the comments section, and let me know what your thoughts are. What’s the donut pillow that gets your butt behind the wheel, again and again?