fiction

Poser!

Venecian Masks (Photo credit: ChaTo (Carlos Castillo))

This morning I made Flower Child scrambled eggs for breakfast. She thought it was her lucky day. Nope, I didn’t get to the grocery store yesterday morning, and that’s all I’ve got. The last two slices of bread are for her lunch. I would have made a smoothie, but there’s brown crap running from the faucet this morning, and the blender is still sitting in the sink waiting to be washed from Nerd Child’s smoothie yesterday morning. This also means I didn’t want to make another bowl dirty by beating the eggs first. What the hell, mixing them in the pan with the spatula is the same thing, right?

Fake it ’til you make it. Kinda sorta.

My motto is probably more along the lines of fake it ’til it’s bedtime. Out of standard, practical for a school day breakfast fare? Scrambled eggs. Haven’t done laundry? Wear dress clothes. “Oh, Mrs Fringe, look at you! Doing something fun/special/important today?” Why yes, yes I am. Pretending I haven’t worn every last t-shirt I own. Except for that Dallas Cowboys one circa 1981 with very inappropriate holes worn through it, that for some reason I never toss when getting rid of old clothes.

Feel like crap? Makeup. Double crap, can’t remember where I last put my makeup bag.

Gained some weight over the winter and too lazy to work out? God bless the designer who decided empire waists should come back into style (five years ago is too still in), along with seamstresses of flowing skirts and A-lines.

Housewife (Photo credit: garryknight)

Doubting that you’ve pulled off or can pull off a fun, light beach read type novel, cause let’s face it, you aren’t all that fun and lighthearted? Keep going, start the next one, only have this one be dark, not fun, and not likely to be spotted on the boardwalk. Wait, this doesn’t quite fit with the equation, does it? Hmm, well, at least I’ll have a writah-ly-type excuse when this one doesn’t sell. Angst isn’t for everyone, after all.

Given that I’m so fucking excellent at faking it, I can’t imagine why I haven’t yet made it.

Suckage and Despair, Chapter 438

English: Danebridge Church Choir singing al fresco (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sing along, now.

There are glorious highs and lows to writing. The highs come from when you know you’re clicking, a sentence is exactly what you want it to be, you’re in a great rhythm, being productive, you look at a completed piece and think, “yes,” this is worthy of submission. The lows, of course, are when you’re struggling, unsure of clarity, convinced that the work you’ve dedicated hours, weeks, months, years to is absolute crap. Lows also come in the form of letters/emails where the salutation states, “Dear Author,” and continues on to blah blah blah too much boring suckage, move along.

There are a few areas of writing where I’m fairly confident, and ride those highs. Logically, it makes no sense, I shouldn’t have any highs or confidence without validation. But they’re necessary in order to pursue this insane, frustrating road. Some days I wish doing laundry could give me that high. Today is one of those days.

I have an idea, and I want to roll with it.

Pencils (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve begun the new WIP. Here’s my high/low paradox. One of the areas I’m normally confident in is openings. I’m pretty good at hitting that “right” first sentence or three, just enough for a reader to want to know where the fuck I’m going with this. I’ve got, for now, the right opening scene, but my opening sentences aren’t strong enough. Even for manuscripts that rely heavily on atmosphere and characterization, you’ve got to hit the ground running. Maybe especially so. Being a lunatic, this naturally leads me to wonder if it’s time to give away my favorite pencils and have a party with the delete button in my documents section.

It doesn’t matter if I’m going to change the beginning later, delete it, shift it, whatever, I’ve got to hit the right note starting out. For me. It’s my crazy process.

It’s Sunday, and I don’t generally write on Sundays. They’re my day for general wallowing. I didn’t write yesterday because of computer issues, so I want to be productive today. Big Senile Dog and Little Incredibly Dumb Dog are looking at me, wondering why it’s 11am and I haven’t fed them yet. If I go into the kitchen to feed them, I’ll be faced with the sink overflowing with pans and dishes from last night’s dinner. So I’ll have to wash them. Once they’re washed, I’ll see how messy the counters are in general. So then I’ll have to clean the counters. Clean counters will remind me of the layer of dust in the living room. I’ll dust, and then realize I should wash/polish the doo dads lining the windowsills. Then I’ll remember the laundry pile, be too tired to sort and bring the laundry downstairs to get involved in laundry wars when I still have to make dinner, and remember I was supposed to be writing. Then I’ll remember why I didn’t write, because what should be a high for me is currently a low. Proof of suckage.

Is it bedtime?

Under the covers (Photo credit: Being a Dilettante)

And Happy Father’s Day to all!

Hey You!

It’s I! Or is it she?

The Three Faces of Eve (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As mentioned last week, I’m now ~~obsessing over~~ planning my next manuscript. Today’s obsession, what point of view (POV), tense, etc. These choices will have great impact on the overall tone and voice of the narrator and by extension, the novel.

First person (I) is and has been very popular for quite a few years now. Generally speaking, I prefer third (she). I like the distance that third person offers, with the flexibility to draw in close. First person, in my opinion, too often feels breathless. It’s the acquaintance you run into on your way home who you smile when you recognize them, “Oh, how nice, I can’t remember why I lost touch with Mr Z.”

talk so fast (Photo credit: Leonard John Matthews)

Five minutes into it, “I’m glad to hear how he is, what’s going on in his life.” Ten minutes into it, “This has been lovely, but I really have to pee.” Twenty brain-numbing, eyes-twitching minutes later, “This is why I stopped returning his calls. For the love of God, make it stop!”

Second person is brilliant when it’s done well, but very few know how to do it well, and I have my doubts about my own ability. The whole goal in fiction is the suspension of disbelief. Pulling that off while directly addressing the reader? Might well be beyond my pay grade.

Wondering why I’m having this angst if these are my thoughts on POV? Me too. Except I have a certain way of writing, getting started. There’s always a very clear opening scene in my head, and I write it. This scene may or may not remain the opening, may or may not end up deleted, but it’s what gets my fingers clicking on the keyboard. Or pencil to paper, if it’s been too long since I’ve last written. The problem is the opening scene I’m “seeing” for this story is in first person. Fine if this was a short story, but I don’t know that I want to write an entire novel with that “I” voice.

And just because I know you’re all dying to know about the rest of this Fringey writing process, I usually have a song that is going through my head as I’m planning a new story. Here’s this one:

Hear that bass track? That’s the framework I’m seeing, the pacing. A little dark, a little ominous, but it keeps moving forward with that rhythm.

Riveting, A Literary V-8

Edward_Lear_A_Book_of_Nonsense 115.jpg (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

As mentioned often, I haven’t had a day off in years. Some days contain more suckage than others. Today, not starting off so well. I got up and decided to make blueberry muffins for breakfast. Flower Child choked on a piece of kale during dinner last night, freaked out, not much was eaten, therefore I wanted to be sure she would really eat this morning. No one else was up yet, I was able to make the batter and get them in the oven. Another often touched on point here in Fringeland, I have a teeny, tiny kitchen. Rules out cooking or baking anything that involves needing a lot of space, and involves regular accidents, because I’ve got about 8 inches of counter space to work with. Got the muffins in the oven without incident, washed what I used for prep, ignored the pot and dishes still in the sink from last night. Time to get those muffins out of the oven. First tray, balanced on top of the stove. Second tray, on the lilliputian amount of space on the dining room table that isn’t used as Husband’s office (read, overflowing with papers, pens, and crap). I now want to slide the rack back inside the oven, which of course, resulted in the first (full) tray flipping off of the stove and half of the muffins flying out and decorating the kitchen. Sigh.

Historical Oven cooking depicted in a painting by Jean-François Millet (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Flower Child is now up, curled on one end of the couch under a blanket, and waiting anxiously for the muffins not covered in dog hair and drool to cool off. I sit on the couch with my laptop and my coffee. After a little bit, I tell her she can take a muffin. She throws her blanket off, and my coffee spills onto the couch, the floor, my phone, and my book. Fuuuuuck! For the record, she’s been standing in front of the muffins for twenty minutes now, waiting for me to tell her which muffin to take, afraid to move at all despite the fact that I told her six times to just pick one. I don’t want to look at them anymore. Husband woke up, looked in the kitchen, and asked if I made scrambled muffins for breakfast.

So, what to do when you need to escape life and you can’t actually have a day off? Read, and try to pretend your couch doesn’t reek of cafe con leche. I was thinking about books and reading this morning, anyway.

What makes a novel great? And I mean fantastic, enduring, cross genre and cross generational. The type of book that you either can’t put down, or have to put down every so often so the perfect line of prose you just read and reread can be examined, dissected and allowed to swim through the synapses of your brain until it’s coming out of your pores like the morning after a night of drinking cheap vodka.

I think it’s when the story is so clear but so flexible you not only want to be the main character, or in that world, you can apply it to yourself in your world, your life. Open for interpretation, if you will, allowing for projection. Kind of weird, because many of my favorite novels involve stories and lives I wouldn’t really want, they’re tragic. But I can feel them. And you, opening the book with a different viewpoint, different life experiences, different locale, different socio-economic background, can see yourself in that main character, in that story, and feel them too.

I don’t want to say ambiguous, because that has negative connotations, and too often makes readers think of torturous works of literature assigned by pompous and musty professors. You know the ones, they smell like my couch. Personally, I’m ok with ambiguous, especially ambiguous endings, but many aren’t. They want to know there is a happy ever after for Joe Smith, or maybe they want to see Mrs Fringe get her comeuppance. Maybe the story, the character, needs to be pliable. Something that has it’s own form, shape, and limits, but can be stretched through a reader’s brain to mold to individual interpretations.

I’m going to make more coffee and give Flower Child a muffin. Tell me what you think.

English: Constellation of Literature pavilion in the Temple of Literature, Hanoi. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Happy Mother’s Day–to all the Fringelings

Flowers for all the Mommies

If you hadn’t noticed by now, I’m not generally a fan of the “Hallmark” holidays. But I have to admit, Mother’s Day can be kind of nice. Today is extra nice on several levels. One, after a spectacularly crappy week, it’s a better day. Friday showed a glimmer of light, yesterday showed promise, and today is a good day. I hope all of you are feeling the same.

Husband read the note I left on the chalkboard, and gave me a couple of much needed and much appreciated gifts. Both boys were in touch with me yesterday, to be sure they didn’t forget to wish me a Happy Mother’s Day.

Flower Child had a rough week, and so did I. There’s the obvious–if she isn’t doing well I’m nervous and holding my breath, my brain hurts with all the coulda-woulda-shouldas and general foot stomping unfairness of life. But she’s smiling and perky now, working on her art and a vision of love.

And then of course, there’s revision hell, which grew to include query writing hell. You know that little voice in your head that whispers, who the fuck are you kidding? You can’t pull off a traditional romance, that’s for woman who are sweetness and light and roses; not women who hope for sleep, a new alarm clock, and money to get their legs waxed. Not for women who were told their last romance was well written, good characters, but just a little too far off the beaten path.

The way I see it, I enjoy writing. Even with an eye towards success and publication, it’s important for me to enjoy it. Not every last aspect, but overall, it should be pleasurable, like Mama-ing. You should be able to weather the difficult or boring parts and stay strong throughout, knowing there will be release, relief, and an ability to hold onto the good days and moments of pure love, so you don’t actually run away or give up when the next hard part comes along. At the moment, no one is paying me for writing any more than I’m being paid for the Mom gig, so the motivation and reward has to come from the act of doing, and hope for eventual external validation. As a Mom, that external validation will (hopefully) include a positive, healthy relationship with adult kiddos. As a writer, the external validation will (hopefully) include a dollar and a contract.

Between internal angst, hammering out query thoughts at the writer’s forum, and pushing through, I’ve come to realize I need to shift the focus of my manuscript, a little. Basically, still the same story, but ultimately not a romance. I’ll keep the strong romantic elements, but focus on my heroine and her challenges and obstacles outside of the relationship. I still want it to be a fun read, this isn’t meant to be a navel gazing allegory on the ills of society (I’ve got my lit fic short stories for that, along with an unfinished manuscript that may or may not ever be completed), but this feels better.

I hope everyone is having a day of peace, or beauty, or whatever it is that lets you feel tomorrow might be okay.

Photos from time in Central Park last weekend with Flower Child.

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And one more, a super bonus surprise sent to me from Nerd Child, delivered yesterday afternoon.

I’m all gooshy inside, wouldn’t you be?

Kin, Utopia, and Rape

For me, reading fiction is like a bag of dill pickle chips. I’ve learned to resist temptation most of the time. Earlier this year I was so blocked I couldn’t read even if I let myself. But when I’m in a phase…I can’t eat one. Once I start, I have to keep going until I’m licking the residue off of the bag.

Mrs Whyte’s Kosher Dill Pickle (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Most novels are read, details forgotten within a day. (I’m a fast reader.) Maybe I’ll remember the general plot line, or the main character, and so I’ll remember the author’s name and look for more of their work. Then, of course, there are the macaroni and cheese books. You know, the comfort novels you can and do re-read. Other books are like the special dinners you remember forever. Even if you only got to enter the restaurant once, some meals have a huge impact on your life and memories.

The Kin of Ata are Waiting For You, by Dorothy Bryant, is one of those books for me. *spoilers ahead*

Cover of The Kin of Ata Are Waiting for You

Initially, it was published in 1971 under a different name as a novella, by a small (I think feminist) press. A few years later, it was picked up by Random House and retitled, maybe 1976. I first read it around 1983, looooved it, but until last week I hadn’t seen it around or read it in at least twenty years.

Oh yeah, feminist sci fi, in line with Marge Piercy, Joanna Russ, and the queen, Ursula K Le Guinn.

The protagonist is an anti-hero, a truly despicable man who seems to represent some of the worst of what the Y chromosome can produce. The book opens with him, an unnamed successful novelist who is in the middle of a fight with a woman. It’s ugly, it’s crude, and he kills her. An accident, but his thoughts in response are all about him, how this might impact his life, how he can get away with this. He runs away, crashes his car, and awakens in an entirely different world. Ata. A mysterious island, a utopia where the inhabitants are governed by their dreams and the greater good. No violence, no sexism, no racism, no written word. They know about the world he comes from, and somehow they keep the balance of that world by maintaining their own. Sex isn’t puritanical, not only for procreational purposes, but it isn’t without consequence, either. He does not magically accept this new world, the people, or their ways, and tries to bring the “real world’s” ugliness with him. As he starts to accept where he is, and begins to understand them, he thinks he will return the favor. Yanno, benevolent privileged white guy, gonna teach the savages the error of their ways, help them out with all his words, studliness and of course, his superior understanding that more is better.

This is not a likable main character. It takes a while to find anything sympathetic in him, and just when you think you have, Bryant raises the stakes and you’re disgusted with him all over again. But because she keeps raising those stakes, you keep reading. He’s one big “id” and the kin of Ata are all “superego.” The book is very Jungian, which fascinated me when I first read it thirty years ago, and fascinates me now. Her descriptions of the island and the people, their customs, all beautiful. There is growth for the protagonist, and a definite (though not easy) character arc, and redemption by the end. But again, not easy. In the same way he confuses the kin for simplistic people, it’s easy to assume he will be saved by acknowledging their spiritual “superiority,” without facing any consequences.

Because it’s been so long since I last read it, some of what I took away is different, some of what I noticed are things I didn’t notice then. The time period? My youth? I don’t know. But I do see some “preachy” factor now, that I didn’t then. I wondered, as I read, if Bryant was raised in, or had spent time with, the Quakers. Quite a few of the customs and beliefs made me feel like I was in a Friends’ Meeting House.

Part of the book is a love story–though not a romance, and this is the part that has me rambling on today. I have one absolute rule in reading or writing romance. Rape is not romantic. I can never, and will never, accept a hero as a romantic lead if he crosses the line. For me, crossing the line doesn’t mean intercourse. Any scene where the “hero” uses physical force to restrain a heroine, or hold her down long enough for her to realize and acknowledge those “strange new stirrings” and I’m done. I’ve heard some writers of historical romance (not many) say well, you have to understand the context, the times…. Umm, no, I don’t.

How could I not have remembered this scene, or loved this book anyway? Yes, he rapes his love interest, Augustine.

He knows she doesn’t want him, but she doesn’t fight him off, doesn’t yell for help, so he justifies his actions, telling himself if she really didn’t want it, she would have called for help, hit him, something. Not only does he do this, but a relationship develops between them later, paralleling his spiritual growth. Can this be? Can I, as a modern pseudo-feminist, accept and still like this novel? Should I oppose it on principle? If I had never read this book before last week, had no associations with it, I would have stopped reading.

The scene itself was interestingly written, and in many ways, it made sense as a powerful statement for a gender neutral, post misogynist society. She could have fought him off, she was at least as strong, if not stronger. The impression was that it was him who was reduced by this act, so ridiculous, so disappointing, it was the tantrum of a child, and she would wait until he had finished his fit before she took care of herself.

Augustine becomes pregnant from this rape. Yes, it’s part of Bryant’s theme of consequences, action/reaction. I assumed he would never, as long as he was on Ata, be able to forget who he was, what he brought to the table and thought was superior, every time he saw the baby/child. I kept waiting. No matter how he evolved, truly loving Augustine, their child, and Ata, I was disappointed. In his depths, it’s clear he understands his actions were wrong, even as he committed this act. And again, this never tries to be a romance, and the protagonist is never a hero. Even within the framework of a “love story,” as opposed to a romance, Augustine’s feelings for him are complex, and never overshadow what she believes is the greater good–or better for herself. And on Ata, the greater good and the individual “good” are so entwined they cannot be separated.

I understand why Bryant included this scene, this heinous act on the part of the protagonist. He was a murderer, but it was through the rape that he realized just how his belly was scraping the bottom, and begin the climb towards caring about others and his actions. I understand it, but I feel squinky every time I think about it, and writing about it.

On Ata, there is very little disease, illness, or disorder. There is pain, injury, aging and death; the kin are human beings, not supernatural creatures. But another detail I hadn’t remembered, the one specific mention of a physical disorder, was of a member with epilepsy. He wasn’t seen as special, having a direct path to God or dreams, nor was he seen as less than anyone else. He was kin. And it gives me a connection to who I am today, what my life includes in reality, not the fantasy of what I thought would be.

I’m wondering what will happen if revisit some of my other old favorites. If I blow the dust off of The Once and Future King, will I find might makes right, after all?

Kink.com Happy Hour (Photo credit: Scott Beale)

Published, Publishable, Crap

Disney Rejection Letter, 1938 (detail) (Photo credit: sim sandwich)

Is publishable equal to published?

In all my non-published, never worked in the publishing industry wisdom, I said no. I believe there are writers out there with work that is publishable that haven’t been published. Bad luck, bad timing, giving up too soon, I can think of quite a few ways and reasons this could come about. This question came up in response to a thread derailment on the writer’s forum.

Another member disagreed with me, and he has valid points (along with better credentials than I). Who’s to say/how can someone say something is publishable if the work hasn’t been published?

Writing, specifically fiction, is so damned subjective. What catches the interest of one agent (or editor, or reader) might be downright distasteful to the next. Frustrating, but in my mind, that’s also the good news. That’s what allows for creativity and interpretation.

Cut the Crap (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Don’t get me wrong, I understand sometimes writing is poor. Not having a good grasp of the rules of the language you’re writing in, a story that doesn’t go anywhere, characters that are flat, etc. But what about the writing and writers who get trashed by critics, but have huge commercial success? Good luck, good timing, perseverance…yes. There’s more to it, though. There’s good storytelling–whether or not the sentences are artfully crafted–and understanding what your audience wants to read, who they can and will identify with.

I’ve said all along, I write to be read, to reach an audience, and hopefully, one day, earn a dollar. If none of my work is ever accepted, never reaches an audience, just how pointless was it? I’m asking in all seriousness, hoping for some discussion, not whining.

Here’s where I start chasing my tail. You don’t know until you’re either published or give up. There is no formula. Most people are unable to publish their first manuscript, some hit with the second, some the tenth, some never do. Everyone’s heard stories of writers whose work was rejected over and over, and eventually were published, a few very successfully, others not so much. But of those who stuck with it, kept writing and submitting, there’s another subset of those who found “homes” and publication for some of their earlier works that had been rejected, considered unpublishable.

How could those earlier works have been a waste? And how do you know? I can’t say “forget the audience, the possibility of publication,” when that is half of my equation. I write because I’m driven to write, I have an overactive imagination, and enough hubris to believe others will identify with my characters and or their feelings, care about them long enough to keep turning the pages to see how the story ends.

If I run with the assumption that unpublished is the same as unpublishable, does unpublished automatically equal crap? Does it matter if what’s on my thumb drive is drivel or golden pearls as long as it’s trapped on the thumb drive? Is it possible for unpubbed work to be anything other than drivel? At what point would you decide that? After 100 rejections? 50? 20? 3? Are all the unpublished writers craptastic hacks, while those who are published are brilliant? If I don’t create the work, polish the work, submit the work (everyone is different, this is the part where I stutter and splutter), it will never have a chance. It’s just a pile of crap taking up room in my brain, as opposed to my hard drive.

Here you have it, the chicken and the egg theory of writing fiction, by Mrs Fringe. If all else fails, I hear chicken shit is excellent fertilizer.

Kindof a visual pun that I’ve illustrated. Which came first? Technically not a photo, but I did have to physically scan it in, so maybe that counts for something. This is a few years old. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There’s a Frog in My Keyboard

English: head of waterfrog (Rana esculenta) Français : tête de grenouille verte (Rana esculenta) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

An unfortunate state of affairs, because the letter “f” on my laptop sticks. About a third of the time when I hit it nothing appears, another third I remember to come down extra hard, and I get three fffs in a row. But I digress.

You know what I mean, when you don’t have actual laryngitis, but what comes out when you open your mouth is not reliable.

I’m taking a day off from the WIP today, because I’m not sure what my next scene is. Rather than stare at the cursor and sob, I decided to take a break. At first thought, the problem is I need a bridge chapter or so to get where I’m headed, in terms of plot and character growth. I’m also at a point in the work where as I’ve added subtext and subplot, the shape of the whole beast is called into question. I can keep it on the same light track I’ve been on, or I can take it deeper, shifting the style and tone. As I engage in this self indulgent pondering, I’m realizing there’s something horribly familiar to this line of thought. (Let’s be honest, Mrs Fringe excels at self-indulgent exercises.) Prior manuscripts? Sure, there are always points where you have to step back and think about what makes the most sense before pushing forward.

The familiarity breeding contempt, having me wonder if the whole damned thing sucks and should be scrapped? It’s the feeling that I’m on a similar page in life. Coming up on a plot twist, and just not sure how to write it, or even what it should be, but I know something has to happen.

Contemplation #1 (Photo credit: Ed Yourdon)

This morning I was on the elevator with a kid whose hair looked like a cross between Don King and Gerald,

Hey Arnold! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

the best friend with the impossibly high “fade” from Hey Arnold. Man Child was about four years old when he fell in love with that show, and tried desperately to explain to the gal at Supercuts that he wanted that haircut, while I tried desperately to explain to him that his hair was a different texture, and could never be sculpted into a cylindrical afro that defied gravity.

If you aren’t familiar with it, Hey Arnold was an animated series that ran on Nickelodeon for 6? 8? years, beginning in the mid to late ’90’s. It was a great show, with fully fleshed out characters, both kids and adults, real problems, and real heart demonstrating life for members of the fringe in a big (fictitious) city.

I began the day thinking I’d like to hide from the WIP and read. Bury myself in my favorite books until I was saturated in Updike, spiked with Joyce Carol Oates, crying Magaret Atwood and bleeding Stephen King. But maybe not, maybe I should turn on the tv and find some Hey Arnold reruns to remember who I am and the pitch of my voice, as a woman on the fringe trying not to let go.

And You Will Bow Before Me

Sculpture by Ernemann Sander: Badende in front of Rheinisches Landesmuseum Bonn (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My plan/goal/resolution for 2013 was to write and submit. I’m writing. Submitting, not so much. Ok, not at all. I think my idea was to have at least one submission out each month. No, I’m not going to look back and check, just in case I was even more delusional than one a month. At first I thought, “I have plenty of time, January has 31 days!”

Then I didn’t think about it at all. In the last week, I remembered. Well, no problem. Yanno, in that writing is easy kind of way. I’ll make up for lost time, and send out five submissions this month. The strangest thing happened, though. The more I began researching where I should send my stories, the more I had other, fabulous ideas that needed to be written down right now. And the more I thought of revisions that had to be made, on stories I haven’t looked at in forever, right now. And of course, the more I needed to check in on Facebook, right now. Hard to believe I’ve yet to decide what to submit where.

Submit. Submission. Submissive. Submerge. Not loving these words.

dark water (Photo credit: rafa2010)

I know all about submission, I read Anne Rice’s Sleeping Beauty series. I even read the Story of O–and what a surprise that was, found by my 15 year old self in the poetry section of a used book store. But what else would I call it? An offering? I don’t know about you, but that still brings the sacrificial lamb to my mind.

But still, I’m going to do it. Why? Because I write, and that’s what people who write, do. We write, revise, delete, bang our heads into the wall, write some more, edit some more, and then submit. It’s funny, the stages you go through as a writer. Not everyone goes through the same ones, or in the same order, but I’ve spoken with a lot of writers in my forty thousand years. Female, male, self taught, MFAs, published or unpublished, the variations of this theme are all sewn with the same thread. As a child you write, and show your work to everyone. Then you begin to hoard it. No one understands me. Absolutely true, no one understands what you don’t share. Then you begin to share again, with those you think will understand your golden thoughts. And then someone doesn’t, or points out the flaws, and it’s crushing. (This stage may now be extinct, the current and more recent generations have the internet, allowing them to learn everyone has to go through this, and someone taking time to point out flaws and errors is a good thing). Then you write again and dream about being a writ-ah. Or a huge commercial success. And you write more and truly begin to learn about editing, revising, rewriting, sharing your work, being critiqued, and the publishing business. And you begin to submit. Some of us stall out and go through these stages several times.

Writing, pursuing publication, it’s a weird thing. You have to have complete and total faith in yourself and your work, but at the same time you have to be open to critique, open to learning more, improving craft, understand that rejection of that work is part of the process. Pride but not hubris.

Will I get five submissions out by the end of this month? Maybe. But I will send my work out. It will be on submission, not me.

Though there may have to be some floggings.

English: A woman flogging a submissive man on a bed (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Limerick Tuesday

Limerick – MÓR Disco, Every Tuesday (Photo credit: infomatique)

Yes, yes there is such a thing as Limerick Tuesday.

It’s the fourth Tuesday in February, when I want to post something, but I’m too dazed to write something deep or clever. Why am I dazed, you ask? It’s the effects from the overwhelming stench in the cab I took with Flower Child when I picked her up from school. She was tired, there was some type of brouhaha happening on Broadway that resulted in many police cars whizzing past with lights and sirens going. Seemed like the perfect day to splurge on a cab. I’m pretty sure that cabdriver must have had a pico reef hidden in the trunk, because that was the gut clenching, every muscle recoiling smell of dead sea critter.

Luckily, I already made some progress on the WIP today, so I’ll just give the update in limerick.

There was a young lady called Frag Hag

Who lived in a magical grab bag

But one day her reef

Gave her such grief

Her virtue; Twas lost to a scumbag!