dreams

Bio__________

Bioagent

Biodegradable

Biochemistry

Biohazard

Biothreat

Biology

Biography

Hmmm.

Last night I got another request for the full manuscript from an agent I queried. She made one of the loveliest statements I’ve ever received about my writing (sent the opening with the query), and if my back wasn’t still broken I’d have done a happy dance. She wanted a file type (you know, the dot whatever) that isn’t my computer’s default, but hey, no problem–Man Child showed me how to do that last month. I kept reading. She wanted my full bio, too. Errrr.

I went from feeling like this

New Moon, New Day, New Season

To this

the remnants of the rebel fleet escape the exploding death star II (Photo credit: lamont_cranston)

Let me say oof, to go along with that errr. I don’t have a bio. Not just that I didn’t have one prepared, I really don’t have anything to say. Average downward mobile gal, unremarkable life of trying to figure out how to pay the bills each month, extraordinary kiddos, dog poop picker upper with a vivid imagination. None of which is relevant to me as a writer, or the story of ASTONISHING. No alcoholism, no magic (good or bad), move along, please, these are not the splendid boobs you’re looking for.

According to the inimitable Janet Reid, patron saint of wanna be writers everywhere, this is not something to worry about. But I’m a querying wanna be–by definition I’m worrying.

I wrote two sentences having to do with my life in cyberspace as Mrs Fringe. Maybe I threw something in about dog poop.

(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.

Mrs Fringe Would Like To Be

Hawaii Beach House (Photo credit: imgdive)

here. No, this isn’t another weather complaint. Ok, maybe it’s a little bit of a weather complaint, but it’s actually a nice day in NY–for February. Sunny and forty five degrees. But really, I think it’s about the life I wish I were living.

It’s funny, because the life I am living is one many others want. Parts of it. New York City. Manhattan. Rent controlled apartment in a high rise building. Proximity to theater, music, art. And when I imagine life in Hawaii, I can see a lot of overlap. Multicultural living. Waking up to sights others dream of. Crazy high cost of living. Crowds. Tourists. Public transportation and walking making more sense than a car for daily life. Roaches big enough to put a leash on.

New York is like a mirage for so many. Generations keep coming. But for every 3 who come, 2 leave. It isn’t what they thought it would be. The competition is too steep, too massive, the snow is too black, the apartment is too cramped, the rent is too damned high. I imagine the same is true in Hawaii. Well, not the black snow, but the fantasy of what life will be like compared to the reality of bills and laundry and dirty dishes.

But in Hawaii you have this.

Big Island, Punaluu Beach Park (Photo credit: Wikipedia

What will it take for me to make peace with where I am? I don’t know. What would it take for me to get there? More money than I’m ever likely to have. Husband willing to go. Nerd Child and Man Child willing to trade their home base. More money.

For years I kept a reef tank, my beach house of dreams in a glass box. Recently I broke it down, the cost of upkeep too much right now. Much as I loved my tank and critters, and I expect I will set it up again eventually, it isn’t much of a substitute for this.

A Needlefish is being cleaned by Rainbow cleaner wrasse, Labroides phthirophagus. on a reef in Hawaii at cleaning station (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There isn’t a whole lot of me in Christina, my main character of Astonishing. Except towards the end, when she’s dreaming of black sand beaches. Yet I didn’t send her there. Why? I don’t know. It would have been a different story, she would have been a different character.

Are you where you thought you’d be, Fringelings? Where you want to be?

**I don’t know why the spacing is so funky today. My mind must be somewhere else. On a beach. Or underwater with a school of yellow tang.

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.

Low

One of those days, yanno? Can’t quite get myself going. I’m certain much of it is because I was sure yesterday was Thursday and woke up thinking, “At least it’s Friday.” Surprise for me, it’s only Wednesday.

The girl saw the puzzle doctor yesterday, not so much fun.

Man Child went back to school. We’re going to miss him, but I know he was more than ready. For a last hoorah, he made bear claws with Flower Child.

Why yes, they do taste as good as they look.

One last dinner, I made a stir fry. Actually two, one for the vegetarians and one for the flesh eaters.

In between writing projects, I feel a little bit adrift. This is fine, I’m not ready to start a new WIP (though there is a little seedling of an idea trying to put down roots). It’s good to rest and recharge before getting lost in a new world. The only problem is it leaves me looking around at my real world, noticing the dust on the furniture, the stains in the sinks, and the fucking freezing temperature outside.

I would like something tangible to look forward to. I have to think about what it can be. Something realistic and within my control. Any ideas?

In the meantime, I give you my latest attempt to capture the moon. This batch seemed more fuzzy than the last batch, but I’m fascinated, trying to figure out what the green splotch is.

Is the green thing a star? Planet?

Sorting through the moon photos put this song in my mind, and it doesn’t want to leave. I figure if I post it here, I’ll pass it on.

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

¡A Tu Salud!

Français : Adèle of Champagne (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Happy New Year, Fringelings!

I was looking for an appropriate quote to inspire me for the coming year–or at least inspire me for a New Year’s post, and I found this:

“Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.”–Theodore Roosevelt

I think that’s what I did over the course of 2013. Not a banner year, but hell, those don’t really exist for those of us on the fringe, do they? Still, not a bad year. Bad moments, scary moments, disappointments? Oh yes, plenty of those. But also some lovely moments, and I find myself further along on the path of acceptance, a là Theodore Roosevelt. I did what I could with what I had, where I was.

I wrote. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. I wrote a few new short stories, two of which I’m pleased with. I held my breath and closed my eyes and posted one of my stories for all to see here on Mrs Fringe. I finished a WIP, Wanna Bees. I edited, I revised. I wrote a query letter for it, and did some half-hearted querying of it. It’s a light, romancey magical realism/urban fantasyish piece. I participated in a twitter pitch contest with it. Lesson learned, twitter pitching is not for me. And then I stopped querying it. Another lesson learned. I want to be that light hearted, romancey love conquers all woman who believes I can and will have it all. But I’m not. I’m a quirky old gal who will do anything for the people I love, adores each of my children so much it makes my heart ache, prone to the blues when I don’t get enough sunlight, with a tendency to think too much while wondering why, how can it be, and what if.

I want to write what (I think, I hope) I’m best at. So I put Wanna Bees to the side, and began a new WIP: Astonishing. I wish I had the magical combination of freedom, discipline, and a decent night’s sleep every night to produce a reasonable word count every single day. But I don’t. I’m more than 3/4 of the way through the first draft, and at the moment, I’m stuck. Pondering, as my friend Buzzie says. I swing between thinking I’ve really got something here and being convinced this is the suckiest suckage I’ve ever committed to paper (or keyboard) and I’m completely delusional to think any agent will ever be interested, let alone a publisher willing to put money towards it. Literary fiction, for God’s sake–something a good number of people don’t believe is a real thing, and assume anything categorized as such is code for pretentious, bloated, navel gazing prose. Still, I haven’t given up, and don’t plan to. A few people I respect and value who’ve seen excerpts have been very encouraging. They like it. Ask if it’s finished–because they want to read the rest. Completely cool, and completely terrifying.

I kept blogging, through times when necessity dictated more sporadic posts, I doubted anyone was reading, doubted whether any of my words should be out in cyberspace. Through Mrs Fringe I raged, I railed, I giggled. I’m glad I did, I’m glad you’re here, and have no plans to stop blathering any time soon. I made and deepened several friendships through blogging and through the writer’s forum.

All three of my kiddos are doing well. Moments of breath holding, nerves, fear, yup. But no out and out medical crises this year for them or Husband, woot!!

I will never be happy living hand to mouth in a cramped apartment, will never stop dreaming of a beach house, will never be blasé when faced with a mountain of medical bills, will never stop wishing I could do more and be more for my kids, will never stop wishing I could be more productive with the hours in my day, will never stop questioning the worth of myself and my words without the validation of a dollar; will keep dreaming of a dishwasher, a yard and garden, my own washer and dryer, a pert nose and perky boobs. But somehow in the year 2013, I did what I could, with what I had, where I am.

I hope to say the same in 2014, and I wish the same for all of you; my followers, my Fringelings, my friends.

Flags around the rink at Rockefeller Center, 2013

Life, Blogging, and Nelson Mandela

The Pen and Sword (Photo credit: DavidR_

Mrs Fringe is not a blog about blogging. It is not a blog about writing. It is not a blog that tells readers how to save the world, raise perfect children, or make the perfect soufflé. Really, it isn’t, check out the “About” page, I claim no expertise and never have.

I touched on this in July, but I’m a little mushy today, so I’m going to write about it again. I began blogging to have a space to be honest and in the hopes of getting myself back into a regular writing schedule–without undue or unrealistic pressure. In navel gazing mode while I grocery shopped this morning, I realized I have achieved these goals, and hope to continue to do so for a long time. The blog isn’t huge, I don’t earn a dollar from it, no agents have sent me sekrit coded messages promising me contracts, but I feel pretty darned good about it.

I get upset by things. I probably shouldn’t because I’m a grown-up and a realist but I do, because I’m a human being with a vivid imagination. Like the complaints going around the building and the neighborhood again, about the local homeless shelters. It’s absolutely true, these buildings, programs, and the people who utilize them are far from ideal neighbors. They need more staffing, support, mental health and drug treatment services. Many of the residents of my building and immediate neighborhood are older people who marched for equal rights, civil rights, against war and nukes and in support of love and peace. Hell, half of them comprised the Occupy Wall Street gatherings. So how come they’re banding together now to close down the local halfway houses, block the homeless shelters? All these years, all this awareness, and still, too few are willing to acknowledge the homeless as more than a nuisance. Definitely not to acknowledge these are human beings, only wanting to hurry up and call them someoneelse’sproblem.

Those pesky homeless guys, the woman staggering down the street? This wasn’t their dream. But this is their neighborhood, and for many it has been since long before Rudy Giuliani cracked down on “quality of life” crimes, Disney took over Broadway and Times Square, and small business owners were squeezed out in favor of 8 gazillion chain drug stores. I’m not glossing over the-way-it-used-to-be; the dirt, the crack vials and shared needles, the squeegee guys hammering on car windows when the bridge and tunnel crowd was trying to get home, the Girls! Girls! Girls! you had to walk through to get to the library.

Description unavailable (Photo credit: Runs With Scissors)

Yeah, it was dirty, sometimes it was scary. Rents were always crazy here, I remember hearing about 8 girls sharing a 5th floor walk up when I was a kid 40,000 years ago. Now the rents have shot from crazy to obscene. The real estate bubble didn’t actually burst here, just sagged a bit. Firm as ever now.

How can it be that I read posts the other day from more than one privileged young American toting the value of sweat shops as opportunities for poor kids?

So where is the compassion? How does someone reconcile “not in my backyard” liberalism with the wailing and gnashing of teeth over the death of Nelson Mandela? I’ve read many, many lovely quotes from Mandela over the last 18 hours. Read many heart warming tributes about what incredible contributions he made to our world. 95% of those tributes include qualifiers, “he wasn’t perfect.” No shit. He was a human being. An incredibly strong, impassioned, brave, fallible human being. But it seems we shouldn’t be human. Not if we’re living on the streets, not if we’re fighting for social justice, not if we’re regular old gals.

I’m the first to admit, I’m not that brave. Or that motivated. Or that strong or that smart. I am not a revolutionary, don’t feel John Lennon’s “Imagine” is my personal anthem.

Mrs Fringe is, however, my little ragged thread of the world. A thread for patching, a thread for connecting. I received a beautiful message this morning from someone who recently found Fringeland. One of my stories made her happy, she connected with it. Over the time I’ve been blogging, I’ve been fortunate enough to receive quite a few notes along those lines. Recently a friend who is also somewhat of a mentor even said that she believes Mrs Fringe has allowed me to hone my voice in my fiction. Nail it. Well, she didn’t say nail it, because she’s way more elegant and eloquent than I will ever be, but that was the gist. I think she’s right, and I wanted to take today’s post to say thank you to everyone who reads, comments, follows, and encourages.

I haven’t written a bestselling novel that opens my nation’s consciousness. I haven’t ended apartheid or led a nation, I haven’t built a homeless shelter or washed the feet of those who walk the streets without shoes. I haven’t even occupied Wall Street. I’m not likely to do any of those things. I do try to be thought-full, to share a smile with others who are living on the Fringe, offer a voice, and more than anything else, remember that I’m a human being, and so is everyone else around me. Thank you for giving me a space to do this, and responses that let me know we do all affect each other.

English: Crystal structure of human DNA polymerase lambda (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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!

Stop Stepping on my Castle!

Fotosequenza – Castle Blaster (Photo credit: p!o)

I don’t know what it is, this inner drive that prompts me to write. I can and have theorized, but I don’t know. Clear to me as I try to find my way back to a disciplined routine this week–this “thing” includes whopping doses of masochism and delusion.

On masochism there’s the obvious, rejections. But honestly, I haven’t faced that many rejections this year because I haven’t sent out all that many submissions or queries. Yes, yes, I said I would have at least two pieces out on submission at all times this year. I lied. Sue me. Then there’s the masochism of sharing your work with anyone. Critiquing, being critiqued, or just being read. I fall behind on official submissions, but I still like to be certain I’m being spanked regularly by sending work to a) people I know it isn’t their thing, and/or b) people who take for-ev-er to respond. Gives me plenty of time to obsess about how appalled they are by my words, and how they’re never ever going to speak to me again.

Image of sado-masochism (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Then there’s the masochism of connecting with other writers. For the camaraderie, the understanding and support. Mmmm hmm. Sometimes it works that way, sometimes it doesn’t. And usually when it doesn’t, I know better. I know better as I’m digging that six foot hole, telling myself to drop the shovel and keep moving. Don’t respond on that thread, Mrs Fringe, it’s a trap you cannot avoid. Like, say, trying to explain and defend that nebulous category of literary fiction. Ridiculous, really. Who am I to defend the validity of lit fic? Unpublished, uneducated, my roots are anything but the ivory tower assumed by many when they see the term “literary.” I sit and sputter and shout at the screen. But I don’t keep moving and respond anyway. Why? Masochism is the only answer.

No it isn’t. Because now my old friend walks in. Hello, Delusion! Walks in and snuggles against me on the couch, plying me with café con leche and unsweetened iced tea as I write. Whispering, “You can do this, you have to do this. A few people like your work. One manuscript, one agent, one publisher. That’s all you need, and then a few more will find your words and like them.”

That’s all I need. So clear, so simple; so ever-loving subjective I sometimes wonder if my time would be better spent dreaming of lottery numbers. Or doing laundry.

I may be delusional and masochistic, but I know we’ve got to have clean bloomers. I also know that some of the very same people who sneer at lit fic refer to their manuscripts as their babies, being critiqued and sending out queries as sending their children into the world.

Yeah, no. I put a lot into my writing. I fall in love with these characters I create, no matter how broken. I write, read, obsess, polish, rip apart over and over again. I love my children, obsess over them, hold my breath in fear and pride as they move out into the world. But I don’t rip them apart or ask others to do so, shrug and move on, dig one out five years later and say hey, if I trim some of the fat off this one I can try again, think of the older ones as learning experiences.

Delusions or not, this day has to move forward. I bet if I search all the way at the back of the dresser drawers, I can find a a pair of clean underwear. Opening the WIP….