Taking Impefect Action

So last night, I'm talking to my coaching teacher, crying because, for one a few reasons, I feel like I'm suffocating because things are not getting done.

But that's not officially true. As I explained to her, things are happening, but they are happening so slowly (due to finite amount of time, money, sanity) that my momentum is sporadic and my tendency has been to do things half-assed [(or as I eloquently explained to her "at half-measure") (potato-potato)].

One of the examples I gave was self-publishing Tempest Makers. The last real hurdle was creating a great cover and then the promotion before releasing it into the interwebs.

And then a revelation hit me: Why does it need a pretty cover? To draw the eye yes, but I can still self-publish it now, and a add freaking lovely cover to it later.

Promotion. Okay, that's important, but I'm thinking something that a ninja would give a respectful nod to.

Crazy? Sort of, but I don't think is entirely nuts. It feels really, Really, REALLY liberating. It feels a hell of a lot more fun that making sure everything has to be "just so."

I feel this monster weight is gone.

I'm going to self-publish Tempest Makers in the next 2 weeks and it's going to be okay. I'm going to reach out to trusted writer friends for their $1.44 of advice and see what happens.

This feels like guerrilla publishing. J

Outright Call to Action, Self-Published Authors:

What tips would you give if you were in my shoes?

P.S., if you are a self-published friend of mine and you've been screaming for a long time what I'm about to do from the roof tops and I haven't been listening, deep apologies. I've been busy trying to be perfect.

The History of a Story: Octavia

Disclaimer: In writing this blog, I realize the cost of embracing fear on many, many levels.

I remember the day I first heard about Octavia Butler. Unfortunately it was the day NPR announced she had crossed. I can't recall the interview. It's been 8 years. She crossed 4months after my grandmother crossed, and 3 months after I was laid off from my job, a day after starting graduate school. I lived in my bathrobe for much of that winter. My brain hurt.

It took a while for my brain to process Octavia was a black, female, science-fiction writer. I'm trying to remember which emotion I felt first. Surprised that black people wrote science fiction. Happy that black people wrote science fiction. Really, really, really damn sad I wouldn't be able to meet her in this existence.

My husband and I listened to an audiobook of Kindred and it was an indescribable feeling of what awe and liberation feels like (I know that sounds weird given what Kindred is about), what opening a door that just appeared and finding every joy that ever existed feels like. I felt the twinge of possibility and it has taken 7 years to build enough momentum to bring my stories to light. But do you want to know something very odd? I didn't get a chance to finish listening to Kindred. The audiobook was a book on cassette I checked out from the library. The cassette was very old and I had to turn up the volume to be able to hear the narrator. My husband and I gave up on the tape and made a promise we would find her books and read them. I have 6 of her books sitting on my shelf, waiting to be read.

At first I felt like an ass because I haven't opened a single book, but I don’t think I was ready to read her stories until now. Over the last year or so, in my search for writers of color, I found NK Jemisin, rediscovered Nalo Hopkinson (I had Brown Girl in the Ring for a stupid long time before reading it), Saladin Ahmed, and so many more.

I was never alone. *squishy feeling on the inside.*

In knowing Octavia existed, the block of "you can't write science fiction because you're black" no longer has a right to exist. To continue to allow the block to exist, meant, 1, I continued to be unconscious, and for reasons other than writing, I try to do my best to be "militant" about due diligence. 2, everything Octavia stood for in regard to being a human being, whose legacy is worth carrying on, and not because she was black and not because she was a woman, made it hard to ignore and insulting to her memory if I didn't at the very least try to bring my stories into the light.

There is much momentum in trying. I've seen people give 2 craps about something and it comes into being with little effort.

What can I do when I put Love around an idea? That's some pretty powerful stuff. I met an artist and yoga instructor who wrote paper on an Octavia Butler series for her class. I met a professor who taught Parable of the Sower to her students. Many of them loved it so much they read Parable of the Talents on their own.

So that's where I am at the moment. I sent the beta readers Tempest Makers late last night, and instead of twiddling my thumbs, I'll read Kindred and work on text for a website.

Take care.

Talk to you later.

The History of a Story

I hope you are well.

I've been busy figuring out social media and wrapping up editing projects. The only things left on the burner are editing a tabletop game, writing text for a friend's web site and my own WIPs.

I suppose I should show a little leg and tell you what my stories are about, or maybe their origins [Who wants to show too much leg? Kurt Vonnegut (some will get that. Others will not.)].

The first story in a yet to be named series, came to life a year ago. It WAS supposed to be a submission for an anthology, but a series of things happened. 1, I was terrified of putting myself "out there," so, 2, I waited until the last minute to finish the story and submit it in time, and, 3, after the panic subsided I discovered, 4, I wanted more breath for this story than ten thousand words would allow (that, and I hadn't gotten the grasp of pulp fiction yet).

When I decided to stop pushing around my story on my plate and hide it behind the mash potatoes I found a really great writing coach. Her name is Rebecca T Dickson, and she has the attitude of Boudicca, and at this time in my writing life I need a writing coach warrior like her. I appreciate her honest, "I've been where you are, so you have no excuse, tough-love attitude. She is fierce. She is good people.

So. Here we are. A year later and about 6 pages of fleshing out the climax away from finishing my short story before I send it to beta readers.

Tempest Makers is an alternate, near future, Sci-Fi, Fantasy. Raze at Dogtree is the story I began first but (see reason 1) finished Tempest Makers first. The universe of these stories is humans, nonhumans, and basically the theme of justice, in all its debatably beautiful and sometimes brutal forms, and how that has an effect that lasts for a time longer than most people realize, or are willing to admit.

There will be some pulp fiction in regard to 2 characters from RaD, but right now those ideas are puffs of air in my brain and in index-card stage of their creation, waiting to be born. I'm juggling with the idea of publishing those first to help you understand the characters' justifications for what happens in RaD and also I think adding those side stories in RaD would probably slow it down. The pulp, for pulp, would be "in medias res," where as where I would put them in RaD would not. Plus I have so many other things planned for these characters, pulp seems most appropriate. Thank you, Andrea Judy.

I'll post this for now, and I promise not to be a stranger. Strange, Duh, but stranger… it's all about context.

Reaching for Traction, Or, Red Staplers? I Didn't Get Any Memo about Red Staplers! Or, Catharsis

So this morning I happen to stumble upon an online discussion about the best way to blog (e.g., Blogger, WordPress, etc.). Many authors gave their 2 cents. I think the part that still continues to poke at my brain is the fact that there are SO MANY options with caveats. And while I am grateful for the choices (I consider myself progressive), I really just want to say, "You know what, people? I just want to freakin' write, okay? I just want to write my stories, publish them, so I can get them out of my head. I already feel like I'm in high heels* dancing backward and NOW you want me to wear a blindfold while wrestling a Komodo dragon?"** PFFT!

Freaking awesome.

My inner nonconformist is cheering me on and encouraging me to drink more coffee.

But I didn't go all ranty during the discussion. I shared my 2 cents and was grateful for all the new information.

More options. Noigitot.***

I don't consider myself a luddite, and even if I did, my husband's love of all things electronic would balance it out (He has a tablet I call "Second Wife." He's got a Kindle Paperwhite he occasionally sees on the side. I'm cool with it.)

Now that my "ranty" seems to have exhausted itself, I really have to acknowledge that adding social media to the mix pulls me out of my writing closet and exposes me to the sun. I see the logic in having a human presence as oppose to being "faceless" and hoping my disembodied awesomeness will draw worldwide readership. No. No, Ma'am. That dog don't hunt.

Noigitot, the hamster wheel that is my brain.

In the end this is really me struggling with feeling comfortable using social media to display my wares. I understand it on a lazy level (just enough to get by). I need to up my A-game so I don't feel like a freak when I post something. Weird form of self-therapy? Yep, I think so.

So this is your warning that you will "see" more of me in the future. It's fun working out my anxiety for all to see.

Maybe I am into exhibitionism after all.

*I do not own high heel shoes. My chiropractor would probably quit me.

**I wouldn't bet Vegas odds on me winning at Komodo dragon wrestling.

***Pronounced "Noy-gee-tot." I think it's a curse word I remember from watching "The Pirates of Dark Water." If "twerking" exists, I think "noigitot" should too. Just puttin' it out there, people. Don’t shoot the messenger. Also, as a child I slipped on black ice and hit my head so take that information for what you will.

Exposed (or Yes, that IS a trench coat and, Yes, I am dressed underneath)

I'm waiting for the coffee to finish brewing.

I'm learning to be okay with my fears in regard to letting people other than people I know read my work.
The thought of that feels like standing naked in a spotlight, at night, in a cold, wet drizzle, with a slight breeze, in front of an old brown brick wall (No, I don't know why a brown brick wall, I'm just going with what my brain is projecting)... and it's muddy. Not standing-in-puddles muddy, but that kind of muddy where you think to yourself, "Hey, that look like the consistency of face-mask mud." Instead of rifles just out of line of sight, there are people (with my face, I'm sure of it) waiting to jeer in all the colorful ways people jeer when they read bad fiction.

Defensive humor, don't fail me now.

It feels like I'm running from a saber-tooth tiger.
When I read the critiques from my writing group I was grateful for the points they made, but it felt like a rabid woolly mammoth, foaming at the mouth, joined the chase (I like to be chronologically correct when I'm half-wake and over exaggerating.)

Most of my waking life I've been an editor, so I'm usually at the receiving end (how appropriate) of manuscripts that (hopefully) have been through all of this; The plot holes mostly filled, grammar and punctuation have been sorted out, adverbs and passive voice have been kept to a minimum, consistencies are consistent, etc. But there is something to be said when you've been immersed so much in your own story, that even though you're grateful for another set or 3 of eyes pointing out the obvious abysses in your story, there is an irrational bit of your brain that thinks, "I really wish humans were more in tune with this whole mind-meld thing. It'd make my life easier." But that's lazy and not really a lot of fun.

So as the coffee begins to take effect and my humorous nature throws a house coat in my general muddy direction, I will pull up my big-girl panties (comfy working undies), turn on some writing music, and get to work.

Avalanche

I'm going to publish my first manuscript early next year. So you're maybe thinking to yourself, "So. Yeah. That's great." For me and many other 1^st-time publishing writers, that's a really big deal.

I remember transcribing for a project and the interviewee talked about how after he wrote and published his first book, the other dozen books just flew out of his head (Okay, he may have said half a dozen books and he may have also said something a little less poetic than "flew out of his head.").

If I was taking the coward's way out, I'd have quite a list of reasons not to write at all (especially with everything going on this year), much less actually have the gall to think I'm going to publish anything. But to be perfectly honest, I'm done being a coward, or more specifically, I'm done creating and living off excuse after excuse as to why I can't do or be or have ____________. I have all around me personal, professional, and spiritual examples of pressing on in the face of less-than-ideal circumstances and not only did they survive and thrive, but their contributions are an avalanche of inspiration for so many.

I've had a lot of fun sharing my stories with the writing group helping me polish my works. I appreciate their input and I am glad when I recognize my ego being an Ego. I'm grateful for the surge of energy that comes from feeling unstuck after I get back a critique.

So my Avalanche of Appreciation is to all who are not perfect and know they are not perfect, and embrace their imperfections. We still trudge on anyway.