Renee Miller's Blog, page 29

Not Losing My Shit

Not too
long ago, I told you all about my dad, who is very ill. Now that the news has
sunk in a little, it’s easier to talk about, although there is this constant
hole inside of me that burns away at my heart because I know that eventually,
this illness will steal him from me. Despite knowing this, I cling to hope. I
know it’s pointless, but I find myself replaying scenarios in my mind, thinking
maybe we deserve a miracle and it will happen. Maybe he won’t leave me before I’m
ready to let him go. I force myself to forget that I don’t believe in miracles.




The reality
is that my dad has stage 4 colon cancer. The tumor is large and it has passed
through his colon wall and into his liver. It is all through his liver
actually. There was hope that perhaps remission would be possible, or that
surgery might remove some of it, but after consulting with doctors and
surgeons, it’s been decided that’s not likely. Surgery is not an option. Ever.



He
continues to fight, undergoing chemotherapy in the hope that he can slow or
stop the cancer’s growth, and buy some time, but it’s tough. If you’ve ever
experienced chemotherapy, either yourself or through a loved one, you know this
is not a pleasant treatment. It’s brutal and it’s hard to stay positive and
optimistic about it when you feel like a bag of shit 24 hours a day. Dealing with the side effects of chemo is the only time he's mentioned giving up. Once he's through it, he takes the reigns again.



I wasn’t
going to write about this again, not here, not anywhere “public” but recently I
came to a realization that’s strangely positive. Grief is a powerfully
debilitating emotion, but we writers are actually quite lucky. We can take
these emotions, this overwhelming pain, and we can turn it into something good.
Perhaps we’ll never share those thoughts and feelings with the rest of the
world, but we have an outlet to at least get it out of our hearts. I haven’t
written much since my dad was diagnosed. Well, that’s a lie. I’ve written
dozens of articles and such, but I’ve written nothing “for me.” To be honest,
most days I feel like I’m barely hanging on. Working, trying to spend time with
my dad, comforting family and friends, looking after my kids, hoping to give
them a good summer vacation despite what Fate has thrown at us, and trying to
process all of this seemingly endless bad news has me constantly on edge, ready
to topple over. I’ve seen more ugly cries than I ever thought I’d see, but I’ve
managed to keep my own limited to early morning showers.



I watched
my parents, their siblings, close friends, and my brothers, get their hopes up countless
times, only to have reality stomp the shit out of them. How many things must a
person endure before they break? The answer? There’s no need to break. We have
this. Words. Sentences. Paragraphs. We can release all that shit right here on
the page. Sure, we’re still sad and angry, but we’re coping. Sometimes "getting over it" isn't an option, so coping with it is the only way to keep going.



But  I haven't been coping. I hadn’t
written anything until today. Every time I opened a Word document or a notebook
and prepared myself to write, I just couldn’t do it. There were no words there. I had nothing. I panicked, and I let fear move in. What would I do if I couldn't write? It's the only way I know to process what I'm feeling. It's the only coping tool I have. I’ve realized since then that I just wasn’t
ready yet.



I can’t
imagine a world without my dad. I don’t want to. I’m a very fortunate person in
that my parents have always been the center of my life. They are not just the
people who raised me. They’re my friends, my advisors, and my most loyal
supporters. My dad is the single person in this world that I knew would always
be in my corner, no matter how stupid my decisions or actions. Trust me, I’ve
done some pretty dumb things in my life. I’m sure he knows every one of them,
even if I didn’t outright confess to a few.



He never
judges, never says much of anything about what I’ve managed to fuck up. Occasionally
he makes a joke or a sarcastic crack about the results of my stupidity, and we
laugh. I say anyone that can make you laugh when things look dark is a special
person. You should hang onto those people with all you have. He stepped up when
my ex stepped down. He became the father my daughter needed so desperately but
didn’t have. No questions asked. No “I told you so’s.”  (and he did tell me so, many times) He just helped
me to pick up the pieces and we kept going, as though that “other guy”  he warned me about never
happened.



When I was
little, I used to think my dad had to be the strongest man alive. Sure he wasn’t
very big, but he was fast and didn’t quit until the job was done. He came from
nothing. His parents lacked the ability to make him feel loved and special, and
this town certainly wasn’t kind to him for most of his life. Yet, he never held
it against people, not even his asshole parents. My dad did whatever he could
to help someone out, even if secretly he thought they were “useless as tits on
a board.” If someone needs help, my dad believes that you should give it, even
if they’d never do the same for you.



As kids, we
knew he’d always be there for us. As adults, he’s still there. Day or night, he
would come when we called. Even when that call is at 3am because one of us
thought a mouse might be in our kitchen. Yeah…I did that more than I care to
admit.



A few days
ago, I received a call from someone who had caused nothing but pain to the
people dearest to me. He apparently felt the need to tell me that he’d been
diagnosed with cancer, but has since been “cured.” Huh. In my heart, I was
screaming. I was furious. How was it fair that a person who’d wasted the life given to him,
who’d caused so much misery and grief to decent, kind people, should get to
live, while a man with a kind heart, who’d fought through so much shit to
overcome his demons and make things right with those he wronged, is going to
die? How is that fair? It’s not. Life isn’t fair. It’s a lesson that will
continue to be taught until we get it and accept it.



I can’t
begin to describe how special both of my parents are. I can’t yet put into
words how angry and sad I feel that my dad will be gone long before his time. But
I’m working on it. I'm writing about it. Finally.



Writing has
given me the tools to cope with that loss of control I feel at my dad’s
illness. There is nothing I can do and that is the worst part in this nightmare. Losing someone
in an instant is something I think would be almost preferable to this long
goodbye. Knowing that someone so dear to you will be gone sooner rather than
later is a tough pill to swallow. Having an indefinite amount of time to prepare...it's not a gift. It's hard. It's soul shattering to hear his voice every day and have your brain whisper that you won't hear that voice soon. It's beyond difficult to share laughter  and experiences when you have that shadow constantly hovering over every moment, every memory.




In his shoes, I’m not sure I wouldn’t
completely lose my shit. Yet, my dad apologizes if he leans on us, and he tries
to make everyone feel better about this nightmare. Instead of wallowing, he’s
making the best of things. I’m not sure I’d know where to start doing that.



I wrote
this post several times. One version was full of profanity and bitter anger. I thought
that definitely wasn’t one to burden you guys with, so I wrote another. But the second one was full of resignation, a sad confession to the world that I am not as strong
as I pretend to be, and a plea for the world to stop making me be that person. But
then I thought that was rather…weak. I didn’t like that one at all. The final
version, before this one, was a single line “It’s not fair.” Then I realized
after deleting that line, I don’t feel as sad or as angry as I did before I
started. I felt…unburdened.



When I
write about feelings that I don’t know how to process, I feel like I’m taking
some control back. It might sound silly, but that helps. I’m still devastated,
but now the future beyond this illness isn’t just a black pit of despair. The clouds have lifted enough for me to imagine going on. I can see my girls growing and healing, and making their papa
proud. I see me doing what he always believed I could do. This dream of publishing
has seemed so trivial in light of recent events and I refused to indulge myself
in it over these past months. But now, I see that I will get there. For him and
for all the time and love he put into making me the kind of person who doesn’t
back down from something just because it’s hard.


As you can
see, I can write again, and that means I’ll be just fine.

Time Out: A Day at the Fair

Yes, she's having fun.



So, now and
then I like to use my blog for something other than yacking on and on about
writing and my process and all that lovely shit. Sometimes it’s nice to write
about something different, something a little more entertaining. So today I’m
going to walk you through a day at the Tweed Fair. No! Don’t run away. It’s
fun. I promise.






Okay, so
the Tweed Fair is held at the Fairgrounds, also known as the arena, curling
club, ball diamond and white building location. Basically, the ball diamond and
the arena/curling club/white building parking lots house the bulk of the fair
paraphernalia. What? Moving on.



Because the
rides, games and whatnot take 2/3 of the parking lot, parking your car at the
fair is a challenge. We’re rednecks of course, so that doesn’t faze us none.
Instead, we just park along the impossibly narrow streets near the fairgrounds.
This makes walking said streets an adventure. There’s only space for one
vehicle on the damn road, so it’s usually one-way traffic, and the direction
depends on who gets there first. Pedestrians are shit out of luck.



Saturday
morning we decide to park at my little brother’s house, as he lives a few doors
down from the fairgrounds and his street is not yet filled with assholes and
their cars. We leave him our keys in case he needs to move the car to go
somewhere because we’re thoughtful like that.



Anyway, we
walk the few feet to the gates, Kurt and I promising each other we’re only
going to get the kids their all-day rides wristbands and check shit out. We’ll
come back later when it isn’t so the-sky-is-falling-hot. Oh, and PS, like every
year, when I woke up that morning I found I was coming down with some kind of
illness. When I turned my head either direction my neck, ear and jaw hurt very
much. I am not a pussy though, the fair must go on. So despite the pain and
fever, onward I marched.



At the
gate, we pay fifteen dollars to get in. Logan and Kennedy are free. Court is no
longer a free admission child, so we may have to start leaving her at home. She
doesn’t think that’s fair. I say get a job, you freeloader. Anyway, there are
some interesting characters milling about and I’m pretty sure they’re all
locals. Surprisingly, the carnies were the most normal-looking people at the
fair this year. This disturbs me more than I can say.



The parking
lot is divided into two sections; rides and games on either side, with a
walkway in between. As you walk in, there are a couple of trucks selling cotton
candy and whatnot, and then you come upon the funhouse and some dragon ride for
kids. Kennedy is only eight, but she’s my daughter, so she’s also a giant and
too big for that ride. She really wanted to go on it, but they said no. But seriously,
skinny, bad-haired bitch who controls the dragon ride—is one inch going to make
or break your fucking ride? Honestly. I gave her such a dirty look but we moved
along. Kurt doesn’t like it when I make a “scene.” We had to get the wrist
bands anyway, right?



The game
folks are all “Win a prize every time” and “Hey Mama, just five dollars for ten
balls!” and I’m all “I’ve got two balls for free that I don’t even want some
days, why would I pay for ten more?” No, I did not say that. There were
children present and Kurt hates “scenes.”



So we went
to the ticket booth, smack in the center of things and asked for three all-day
pass wristbands. $75. Cha-ching. My stomach did a flip and we paid. Well, Kurt
paid. He’s the man with the money. But it still made me nauseous.



Ten minutes
later we’re down from three kids to one. Court and Logan found friends and took
off. Then we gained a child as Kennedy’s cousin joined us. But then she left
too, following Court and her friends. So it was up to me to ride the Ferris
wheel with Kennedy.  Um…I did a great job
pretending I wasn’t scared to death. And we got off. So then Ken went on a
couple of other rides. Did I mention it was so hot my face melted off? No? Well
it was a mess.



Also, I
think the fever was making me snaky. So we wandered for a bit, and finally convinced
Kennedy we should go home. We tracked down our eldest children and they said
they wanted to stay. After handing some cash to each kid, making sure they
could eat and have plenty to drink because it was too hot to even live, we went
home.



I had a
nap, hoping to beat the cold before it really set in. It was a nice nap.
Apparently my favorite uncle who I only see like twice a year stopped by and
rang the doorbell, but I didn’t hear him. He peeked into my garage/office and asked
my mother later if the rest of my house looked like the garbage apocalypse that
is the garage, and she said probably it did. I told her to piss off.



Anyway, two
hours later, Kennedy is all “We have to go back to the fair!!” and I’m all
“Nguh.” because I was sleeping. Then I’m like, “Faaack!” and I got up. Cup of
coffee and a bit of sugar and I was good to go back to the fair. This time we
parked at Kurt’s cousin’s house. He lives across the road from my parents and
one street over from my little brother. We’d have parked at my parents’ house
if half the town wasn’t already there. Fuckers. They never even asked. Just
parked like they owned the place. If I’d been Mom and Dad, there’d have been
some nails in some tires.



But moving
on, we went back to the fair, but we didn’t pay to get in this time because our
hands were stamped and that’s how shit works at the Tweed fair. Kennedy wanted
to go on this teacup ride. But let me explain first. The teacups have this
wheel in the middle. You turn it and your teacup spins. Keep turning it and you
might just spin fast enough to lift off. At the same time, the ride tilts as
you’re spinning. I hope you can grasp the spinning and tilting madness going
on. Okay? At the same time as the spinning and tilting, the entire ride is
whipping you round and round. AND, what's holding you in? A stupid rope with a not in the end slotted between two pieces of rubber. Got it? Okay, so Kennedy wants to get on. But
she’s all “Don’t turn the wheel.” Me being a good mother, I say, “There’s
nothing to be afraid of. I’ll turn it a little so you can see how fun it is.”
Great fucking idea, Renee. You idiot.




Ride of certain death or vomit.


We get off
the ride and I had to go to my mom’s, which is right behind the fairgrounds,
because I am certain I might vomit or die, or both. I don’t know what happened
at the fair while I was gone. But an hour later I felt better and went back.
What did I find? My youngest, my baby, who never wants to go on the crazy
rides, and who never wants to be out of my sight, is running all over the place
going on all the nutjob rides. What is happening to this world when a mama
can’t have a clingy cub anymore? Sigh.



So we
follow Kennedy around the fair as she hops on this ride or that. No the dragon
ride bitch still won’t let her on. We walk by the teacups. I refuse to get on.
But as Kennedy gets in line and I’m all, “What am I stepping in?” I look down
to find a steaming heap of vomit. But no—that’s not all I find. As I look around,
I realize there are many heaps of steaming vomit all around the ride. I’m
talking dozens. And so I feel a little better knowing that yes, that ride made
me so nauseous I had to go home, but I was man enough to hold it in. Not like
the pussies that just exploded their stomach contents all over the pavement.



I think
part of the vomit problem might have been the heat. The other part was the
youngsters who arrived at the fair inebriated. When I say youngsters, I’m not
talking high school age, where it’s somewhat expected. No, I’m talking twelve
year olds and younger. One such group of delinquents walked up and introduced
themselves to me. Their eyes were so bright they might have been sucking on
electrical cords. They stuck out their hands for a handshake and I’m all “I don’t
know where that’s been so I’ll pass.” They giggle and Kurt shakes their hands
and they run away. I’m like, “You just condoned that bullshit, you know.” He
ignores me because that’s what he does. Later we saw the same kids being
followed by the cops. See kids? Drinking underage brings you nothing but vomit
and cops. Possibly a grounding too, but that depends on your parents I suppose.




Later, as
we watched Kennedy get on the Ferris wheel with her friend, the guy running it
is all “Hey, wanna get on?” At first I was offended. No, I certainly did not
want to “get on.” Imagine the audacity. But then Kurt’s like, “He wants to know
if you want on the ride.” I look at the guy, and I’m like, “For free?” He nods.
So I drag Kurt, who didn’t think he’d have to get on the damn thing, over to
the Ferris wheel. Kurt says to the man as we step on, “What’s the weight
capacity on this thing?” The guy is like “750 pounds.” He looks at me and
shrugs. “It’s close, but I think we’ll be okay.”



Ferris
wheels are fun as long as you don’t look at the rusted bolts and areas where
the metal was patched. Yeah, don’t look at those at all.




Yes, FIVE tickets to go round in a circle on death trap. Happy times.




By 10 pm,
Kurt and I are beyond done with the fair. So far the grand total including
rides, games, admission and food is just a little over $200. Memories:
Priceless. Yes, I’m still sick. Sympathy please.

Ten Things I Gave Up For Writing

When I started writing “seriously” I found myself slowly
giving up some things. These were things that I never once thought I’d just
toss away like yesterday’s trash, but I did. Most of the time I didn’t realize
they were gone until much later. By then I’d forgotten about them. Some of them
I still miss, and I do plan to take back someday. Others I never needed in the
first place. So what ten things did I give up for writing? Some of them I’m
sure you’ve already guessed, but here goes:



1. Sleep




This was the first thing to go, although I might argue that
I never really had sleep to begin with. Now I sacrifice sleep above anything
else. I figure I can sleep when I’m dead, right? For now, I’ll just take what
my body says it requires and no more. I do miss those long, deep sleeps where
your dreams get all fucked up. Know those ones? Sigh. Sometimes I let myself
have one of those just for inspiration. The Ropers dream is one I’d like to
revisit because I think there’s a story in there. A twisted, messed up,
terrifying story.






2. Reality Television





You have no idea how hard it was to give this up. I loved
all the Big Brother, Bachelor and Survivor shit. Fear Factor? One of my
favorite shows. But alas, writing takes time and reality television wasn’t
contributing a damn thing to my life. So off it went. Besides, I’d get caught
up in something I was writing, miss a show and then I was fucked for the rest
of the season. That’s so damn frustrating. Instead of watching any television
(aside from Republic of Doyle
- Allan Hawko, sigh—and Big Bang Theory), I
buy seasons of certain shows (True Blood, Game of Thrones, Walking Dead, etc.)
on DVD, or watch them on Netflix. This way, I can get my fix when I have time
for said fix.



3. Snack Time





Sort of. I miss my old snack time, which usually fell
between 7pm and 9pm each night. I’d grab whatever was most unhealthy for me,
and sit on the couch with my big blanket to watch whatever was on the TV, or to
read whatever was waiting on the end table, and I’d just zone out for an hour.
God, I miss that. Now it’s limited to 30 minutes or less and consists of a
handful of chips and yammering at Kurt until he threatens to punch me. On the
plus side: I’ve lost those ten pounds that kept lurking out around my ass. So
there’s that.



4. Sanity





It’s overrated I know, but I miss the days where clear,
lucid thought was just a given. Now I’ve got so much shit in my head, it takes
a good five minutes to slow that shit down and figure out where I left my keys.
Someone asked me my name a few weeks ago and I blanked out. Who forgets their
damn name? I see a horrible story on the news and I try to think about how I
could improve it in book form. I hear someone say something funny and I’m trying
to recall it until I can get home and write it down for some character to say
somewhere. I find myself figuring out ways to write more, sleep less, plot
more, socialize less…you get the idea. If anyone messes with my writing
schedule or my “mood” then I truly visualize either killing them, or torturing
them in ways I’m pretty sure a psychiatrist would frown upon.



5. Impatience





Not patience, I gave up impatience. I used to be the most
impatient person you’d ever meet. Waiting? Pfft, that was for the rest of the
morons. Not me. I’ve learned during this process that impatience does nothing
but cause mass burials in the backyard. Instead, I’ve learned to breathe and
then forget about whatever it is I’m being forced to wait for. I’ve also
learned that I cannot possibly type as fast as I can think. It used to
frustrate the shit out of me, but now I’m good with it. I just allow myself to
make mistakes, type half-thoughts and gloss over some details so I can keep up
with my brain. I’ve learned there’s no shame in going back and fixing it all
later. It’s called rewriting.



6. A Clean House





Oh never mind. I gave this shit up a long time ago. I won’t
lie to you. It just got worse when I started writing. I’ll spare my mother the
embarrassment and we won’t get into descriptions of my house.



7. Being Normal






I simply don’t do normal things anymore and I certainly don’t
think like normal people think. I don’t think I ever truly wanted to be normal
anyway. It’s rather boring and feels like a noose slowly strangling fun Renee.
Writing gave me the excuse to say fuckit. Weird is where it’s at.






8. Boredom





I am never bored. Not ever. I never thought I’d say that,
and I certainly didn’t imagine I’d miss boredom, but I do. I miss the emptiness
of it. That’s very relaxing you know. Someday soon though, I plan to learn how
to empty my brain now and then. I’m sure it’d be a good stress reliever. So
far, I haven’t been successful at it. I empty and shit just comes in the other
side.



9. Ignorance of shitty writing





I used to read voraciously. I’d read anything and everything
within my favorite genres, and there wasn’t much I really complained about. To
be honest, I used to self-correct things that were wonky automatically. It didn’t
occur to me that a reader shouldn’t do that if the writer has any skills. I
miss that ignorance. It made reading so much more enjoyable. On the other hand,
it’s stopped me from wasting money on fluff, and it’s taught me that I do know
what I’m doing on my end. Knowing good writing from bad has also opened me up
to a world of writers I’d never have considered before. I used to be a genre
whore. Anything outside my genres of choice, I’d never touch. Now, I’ll read
anything if it’s written well. The shitty books I save for craft projects with
the kids.



10. Self-Doubt





When I started writing, it was for fun. I didn’t care about
grammar, plot or characterization. When I turned to writing to publish, all of
these rules coming at me just overwhelmed me, and they reminded me why I
abandoned that childhood dream of being an author to begin with. It’s hard and
it can be soul-shattering if you don’t believe in yourself. But then one day I
realized I was causing my own problems. If I didn’t believe in myself and my
ability, of course I’d suck for eternity. There’s no way to improve if you have
no confidence in your skills. So, I chucked self-doubt aside, and my writing
became more open and smooth. I found my voice and I am proud of it. Self-doubt
has no place in writing and it’s one thing I do not miss. Also, this confidence
spills over into other areas of my life, which is kind of nice.





So there you have it. Ten things I gave up when I started to
write “seriously.” There are more very minor things, but they’re not really
things I miss at all. I gave up smooth legs and makeup because I just don’t
have time to worry about such things every single day. Hey, I’ve got a lot of
leg to clear, and I do try to keep them from becoming sasquatchy, so just leave
me alone. And makeup is on an “as needed” basis. I would’ve died before I’d go
out without makeup on a few years ago. Now I’m like “yeah, I’m sick.” because I
always get that question. “You feeling okay, you’re a little pale.” It’s called
genetics, asshole.






Tangent. Sorry. Anyway, what things have you given up in
order to write? Do you miss them?

A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood

The day hadn't turned out quite like I expected. When I woke this
morning, excitement bubbled in my chest, threatening to break free in the form
of song and dance. Song and dance are not generally my thing, so the very idea
that I could feel like doing that meant it had to be a good day.



I rolled out of bed, smiling at the brilliant expanse of azure that
filled my dusty window, almost blinding in its brightness. Not one cloud dared
to mar its beauty.



Humming a little melody, far too early for outright singing no
matter how good my mood, I headed downstairs to make coffee. Not even a perfect
day could make my sleep deprived brain admit that I was awake. Only copious
amounts of coffee could achieve that feat. The clothes and dogs scattered
across my bedroom floor made anything more graceful than stumbling impossible.



The morning passed pleasantly. I waited for the momentous thing I
was sure would happen to hurry up and do so. What else could occur on such an
awesome day but something life changing and wonderful?



I'll tell you.



I think things took a downward turn when I went outside. Trudging
down the narrow sidewalk that I often believe was put in as an afterthought as
it was more of a curb than a sidewalk, my foot slid and suddenly I lay on my
back, staring up at what I previously thought was a beautiful blue sky. I
scrambled to my feet, hoping no one saw my clumsiness, and a sweet, awful, and
familiar odour wafted to my nose. Dog shit. Judging by the warmth seeping
through the ass of my jeans, it was fresh too. Fucking lazy pricks. How hard is
it to take a tiny black bag and pick up after your wretched little dog? There
are signs, for crying out loud.



I looked down and fury rose, burning my throat as I stared at the
little brown balls of pooh left by, I was certain, the yappy little rat dog
from three houses down. Mrs. Thompson, for all her money, couldn't seem to
afford shit bags. The temptation to scoop up the tiny pebbles—which,
considering it was such a small dog, seemed rather numerous for one offering—and
take them to her house so that I could shove them into her preachy,
charity-loving, church-bake sale-organizing, I'm-so-much-better-than-you,
hooker-red-lipstick-stained mouth, was overwhelming.



But I did not do that. I went home, as any mature adult would do.



At my house, safe from the perils of the sidewalk and my lazy
neighbours, the day continued to spiral into a pit of blackness.



The hot water tank decided to go on strike, or rather, it just quit.
The bottom gave way and flooded my newly renovated basement, ruining my pretty
beige carpet. I did not call my husband. I tried to fix the problem before he
came home. I would have done it too, if the dog hadn't eaten an entire box of
tampons and started coughing and gagging with alarming intensity.



I rushed the moron to the vet where they performed some miraculous
manoeuvre that brought said tampons back up in an interesting pile of
white-yellow slime. Five hundred dollars later, I went home with the dog whose
life hung by a string, almost literally, and found that I'd left the stove on.
The house was full of smoke, burning my nose and causing my eyes to tear up,
although I suspect the fact that I was crying could have accounted for the
tears. The alarm screamed for me to do something about it and the idiot dog
barked back, eliciting a stabbing pain behind my eyes.



Apparently burners spark and blow up if you leave them on and forget
to move the plumber's receipt away from the stovetop. Who knew?



Now, I lie in my bed, yellow ball squeezed tight in my hand. If I
open it, the ball will bounce back to its former roundness, but I'd have to
stare at the black smiley face that I'm positive was put there to mock me. Why
do they make stress balls with smiley faces? Whose brilliant idea was that? I
will not open my hand. My eyes remain glued to the breathtaking sunset that
fills my window.



My husband is downstairs muttering about how the house depreciates
every time he leaves me alone in it. My daughter is practicing her newfound
vocabulary which she learned after my husband and I “discussed” the stove and
the water tank, and she's sure to show it off at school. I am afraid to get out
of bed. The sky is brilliant lavender streaked with amber, promising another
beautiful day tomorrow. Fucking perfect.



Another beautiful day just might kill me.

When taking things for granted is a good thing

We recently
found out that my dad has colon cancer. It’s stage four, and has spread to
other organs. You see, they can’t “cure” my dad. The tumor can’t be removed.
Chemo might put the cancer into remission, but the odds are slim. I don’t want
sympathy because this isn’t intended to be a sad post. I’m sad, angry and all
those other things that come with the idea of losing one of the most important
people in my  life, but he’s still here
and we’re making the best of a shitty situation. I’m telling you this to
explain why I’m thinking philosophically. I don’t often do this “in public,” so
it’s weird. Icky almost.



 My family is
now full of one thing: hope. Notice I did not say that “all we have is hope”
because that implies hope is useless, insignificant in the grand scheme. The
thing is, hope is what keeps every one of us plugging away at this shitty thing
we call life each day. I mean, come on. Doesn’t it seem sometimes like you’ve
got a target on your back that the gods of fucked up have honed in on with
brutal accuracy?



But despite
the crap that’s piled on us, we go on. Why? You hope tomorrow will be better.
Tomorrow you might get that email that says Agent Big Shot wants your book.
Tomorrow you might win the lottery. Tomorrow it might not rain.



Tomorrow,
the odds might finally be in your favor.



We take a
lot of things for granted. Hope is intangible, and to be honest, if we thought
about it too much, we’d probably become depressed. So taking hope for granted
is a good thing.



As I
pondered this, I thought about the other intangible things we writers are blessed
with; things that (usually) cannot be taken from us. We don’t even
think about them. They’re just there and we expect that they’ll continue to be.
This pondering about hope and loss made me think of memories.



What would
you do without your memories? As writers, memories are vital to our creativity,
to our inspiration. They fill the cracks in our stories. We create characters
and situations based on our own experiences. We color all of our stories with
our memories, although often I don’t think we know that we’re doing it. We don’t
realize how vital memory is until part of our life becomes empty, either because
we’ve lost someone, or because we’ve moved onto different circumstances.



Memory is
still not fully understood. How it works and why we recall some things and not
others is a mystery. Human memory is as diverse as it is complex. Consider that
some people can recall events that occurred when they were too young to speak,
while others can’t clearly remember anything prior to their teens. My memory is
based on images. I recall things in snapshots and sometimes sounds or words. I
remember several things that happened when I was not quite two years old. I
know this only because I relayed these “snapshots” to my parents and they just
sat there dumbstruck because I remembered the scenes, the objects, the people
and the words exactly as they’d happened. To me, they were like a recurring
dream. I didn’t know that what I’d dreamt actually happened until I put what I
saw and heard into words. Yet, a good portion of my childhood is blank. I don’t
see this as sad. It’s fascinating. Why do we remember some things, but not
others? Is it choice? Is it random? Is it possible to remember beyond this life
if we truly do have such things as “old souls?” How awesome would that be?


How amazing
that we have the ability to imagine the awesomeness of reincarnation? This is
another intangible human quality that writers can’t live without, but that we
also don’t think about very often. If you’ve ever wondered about anything, you’ve
used your imagination. To be honest, without imagination, I bet humanity
would be stuck in the dark ages. Without imagination, we’d never have had
language, medicine, technology or any sort of innovation. Yet, it’s effortless.
We just say “What if…?” and there we have it. Imagination is the ability to
take a vague concept and turn it into a reality. It is something we all have,
but only a lucky few have figured out how to put into words. Then we choose
whether or not to share those words with others.




We all have
choice, no matter where we live. Some of us are given too much, while others
are given precious little. But we all have choice of some kind. For example,
you can choose to keep going or you can choose to give up. No one is ever
forced to keep on trucking. We do it because we choose to. Any one of us can
opt out at any time. The reasons for choosing to continue vary. Some of us do
it out of fear, moral obligation, and others do it because the alternatives are
unacceptable. Some people don’t realize we have the option of quitting. It just
never occurs to them.



Writers
choose to write. Yes it’s a passion and it’s like breathing once you give
yourself over to it, but when you break it all down, you choose to indulge that
passion. You choose what you write, how you write it and who you share it with.
You choose your path to publication. No one is forced to do anything, and it
irks me that some writers self-publish because they feel there is no
alternative. It irks me that some writers plug away for eternity at finding an
agent, because that’s the only “right” way to go. We chose to write, we chose
our path, and no one forces us to do anything.



Hope.
Memories. Imagination. Choice.



Thank your
preferred deity for these gifts, and use them wisely.

When Life Hands You Lemons, Fuckit

My dad is
hyper and probably too tightly-wound for his own good. Growing up, I learned
from the master of rants how to unleash venom like nobody’s business. While he
did like a good tirade, my dad also knows how to just let shit go. People who
know him are probably like, “What? Donny lets nothing go.” Oh yes, he does. You
don’t get that mad, that often, and not let some of it go or you’d
spontaneously combust.



So, how
does a drama queen (or king) prevent combustion in a world full of unfairness
and inequality? One word: Fuckit. No, I know you think it’s two words, but it’s
not.



I’ll explain
how to use it.



Boss is an
asshole? Always riding your ass? Fuckit. Just because you have to deal with him
nine to five doesn’t mean you’ve gotta take him home so your family can deal
with him too. Fuckit. Here’s a beer. Drink it. Stop moaning and grow the fuck up.
All bosses are assholes.
 


Can’t find
time to write? Family, friends, work, kids, etc. sucking your time away?
Fuckit. The world won’t stop for you,
honey. You must stop it yourself.



Got your
thousandth query rejection? Oh muffin, it hurts. I know. You are devastated.
You want to quit. You can’t possibly send your manuscript to anyone else and
endure this rejection again. Fuckit. Just be happy you don’t have to do shit
like they did in the “olden days.” Imagine mailing
a thousand letters and having a bigass pile of tangible rejection sitting on
your desk, as well as the cost of postage eating up your bank account. Fuckit.
Send another one out, or write a new book. Do something other than bitch about
it. Those jerkoffs can’t hear you anyway. Might as well be pissing in the wind. Fuckit. Cheers.



Seeing
fifty shades of crap on the bestseller list is eating a hole in your guts. God,
you are so much better than that, your work is fucking brilliant in comparison.
Your stories mean something, they say something, damn it. It’s not right that
you aren’t published while hacks like that are raking it in. Fuckit. How do you
know you’re better than that? What makes your work so different? What’s that?
Exactly. You knew damn well that your book wouldn’t appeal to the masses. You
knew that only serious readers could appreciate the plotting and deep
characterization you blended to create an epic tale of whateverness. Write
commercial or don’t. That’s your choice. But don’t bitch about a book that
requires a specific audience taking a long time to publish. Such things only
occur with the right agent, the right publisher and the right moment in time.
That doesn’t happen just because you wish it to be so.




Fuckit.



Pissed that
everyone and his uncle are self-publishing these days? You think
self-publishing and e-books are destroying the craft of writing? Are they
destroying the meaning of “author” and “art” for the world? Fuckit. What makes
you the judge of good or bad writing? What makes a novel “art” versus “entertainment?”
Is one better than the other? Get off your high horse fucknut and worry about yourself
and your writing. The only thing you can control in this universe is you.



See how
that all works? Life is not fair. It will never be fair. There will always be
something to make you angry, hurt, sad, frustrated, and whatever other negative
emotion you might be feeling. This industry doesn’t care about you or your hard
work. Face it; you’re one in a million, but not in a unique way. Fuckit. Just
worry about yourself and shit takes care of itself in the end. Don’t believe
me? What have your tantrums accomplished? Your rants? Are you any closer to
getting what you want because you spewed your venom?



Of course
you aren’t. It feels good to let it out, but after you do that, say fuckit.
Grab a good stiff something and move on.

Why are we fighting?

The
self-publishing versus traditional publishing war is as retarded as it is emotionally-charged.
I’ve allowed myself to be carried by the horde, arguing for this or that, and I
still stand by what I feel is right for me. But who the hell am I to tell
someone else that’s right for them? That's none of my business.






Nathan
Bransford  (highly recommend following his blog) wrote an article
this week regarding the traditional versus self-publishing battle, that is
really reasonable and intelligent. He discussed the existence of this invisible
battle, and essentially asked why we’re fighting a battle that shouldn’t exist.
He felt it boiled down to making the right decision for your book, not the
right way versus the wrong way to publish. And I agree with him, mostly.



One
commenter respectfully disagreed with him right away. The argument was sound:
Self-publishing is extremely risky for new authors. Traditionally published
authors have a reader base, so they can roll the dice without worrying about
sabotaging their career.



I agree
with this guy (or gal) too.



There is no
“right” way for everyone anymore. I don’t think there ever was. The difference
now is that there are too many options available to everyone—even those who
shouldn’t have an option at all. But I think the message of Nathan’s article
may have been lost to the commenters. Why are we fighting amongst ourselves? He’s
right. We are writers. We produce content. We sell/give that content to
readers. We entertain, enlighten, and try to touch readers in some way. That is
our goal, and nothing else. Who cares if Joe Nobody self-published his book? Is
it good? Then, why focus on how he got it out there? Who cares if Jane Somebody
traditionally published? Is she any better than Joe? Worse? Then don’t buy her
book. Quit bitching about them. We’re tired of hearing it.



We need to
stop moaning that this person or that person shouldn’t be published. There will
always be someone on the bookstore
shelves who shouldn’t be published. It’s how this industry plays the game. I
don’t like it, and I used to be one of those moaners, but time and careful
evaluation of what my goals and such really are have mellowed me somewhat. Why
should I care if readers read shit? It’s not my business. My business is giving
them something worth reading, thus showing them the difference between a writer
who works hard at what she does, and one that shovels shit without a care to
whether it’s worth paying for. If said reader can’t make the distinction, it’s
not the shit writer’s fault, is it? What is being gained by insulting or
demeaning someone else’s work no matter how awful you think it is?



In terms of
whether we have the same amount of options between traditional and
self-published authors, I must disagree with Nathan. We don’t. New authors
should try the traditional route, if only by sending out a few queries. Just
try it. On the other hand, at some point in the query process, said authors
need to take a step back and admit to themselves that traditional publishing is
not the be-all and end-all to becoming a successful author.



Traditionally
published authors who’ve turned to self-publishing need to stop trying to
convince new authors they should skip the query process entirely. This is irresponsible
and really not fair. New authors are entering a maze filled with conflicting
advice and they really look up to those who have “made it.” If you’ve
published, even with a small publisher, and opted out of the traditional game,
consider where you were prior to publishing and what you learned by
experiencing both routes. It’s something everyone needs to experience, good or
bad. And give a gal a chance to build a reader base. Jesus, you did it, so why
not encourage others to exhaust every option just like you did. Everyone gets
different results because we make different choices and write different stories.
In telling a newb that traditional publishing is bullshit, you may have
encouraged her to toss away her shot at something big. Maybe her book will be
different than yours. Alternatively, you may have saved her a lot of heartache
too. But you can’t know what her experience will be. Writing should be hard. Publishing should be hard. You busted your ass and
got a stab at both methods so that you could then make an informed decision for
you. Get your head out of your ass
and let someone else make the same informed decision. Encourage others to
experience it regardless of how things worked for you.



Previously
published authors have a much better chance at succeeding with self-publishing
than new authors. I don’t care if they didn’t make the bestseller list, they
still have readers that most unpublished authors do not. This makes the choice
different for them. There’s not as much risk involved and not as many unknown
variables to consider. If you’re going to open your mouth to give advice, make
sure you haven’t biased that advice and made it useless.


But writers
in both camps should not be at odds. There shouldn’t even be separate camps. We
are writers. That’s it.






People love
drama. We like to feel part of a team. Otherwise the Team Eric/Team Bill (I’m
team Eric), Team Jacob/Team Edward (I’m team neither), etc. marketing ploys
would never work. But they do work, and they do it extremely well. The problem
is that we tend to pick fights where fights shouldn’t exist. Write your damn
book. Shut up about who is better. No one is “better.” There’s shit on the
traditional shelves and there’s shit on the self-published shelves. Who has
more shit or worse shit isn’t important. Your focus should be on NOT writing
shit. That’s all you should concern yourself with. Then, whatever shelf you
choose to put your book on has one less pile of shit than it did yesterday.

I Think Zombies are Ridiculous But….

I’m addicted to a little show called “The Walking Dead.” So
remember the billion times I’ve said “never say never?” Yeah, well this is why.
You just never know what will happen on down the road. Zombie apocalypses are
highly improbable, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t fun.



Up to a few months ago, zombie stories seemed ridiculous to
me. The very idea is just so implausible I can’t wrap my brain around it enough
to enjoy the read. Then Courtney is all “There’s this zombie apocalypse show on
Netflix called The Walking Dead and it’s awesome.” And I was all, “Mmm…I’m sure
it is.” In my head I was thinking, oh great, now my kid is a stupid zombie fan.
What has this world come to?



Although I dreaded enduring the damn show, I thought I
better watch it to make sure there was nothing that would be inappropriate for her
to be watching. So off to Netflix I went and I watched the stupid zombie show.



And I loved it.



Now a warning: Most parents may not feel this show is the
best show for their teen to watch. There’s a lot of nasty grossness involved.
No graphic sex or profanity, so far, but a lot of zombies eating people and
innards hanging out. Yeah, disgusting but not…HBO. However, some of the
“situations” are thought-provoking and can inspire some interesting discussions.
I leave that with you. This parent lets her child watch it and we talk about
it. So, there you have it.



Okay, that’s out of the way. So in the second season, a kid
gets hurt and they have an interesting discussion. Do they save him or let him
die? Of course you’re all like “Save him, of course!” but their situation is
not so simple. You see, the world is turning into zombies. There are still
people left, but they’re dropping like flies and both adults and kids live
every hour, every minute, terrified that they’ll be next. So, is it best to let
the child go knowing the fight is finally over for him, or do you save him, and
give him a shot at what might happen later?



Hard question. No. I don’t have an answer.



The zombies in the show are nasty and mostly pretty cliché
monster fare, but they’re consistent. They walk in herds, are attracted to
blood, noise and pretty shiny stuff. Kind of like humans, don’t you think?



Now and then I pause and say, “Jesus, why am I watching
this?” when something retarded and overly dramatic happens, but there I sit,
chewing my fingernails with my heart in my throat. So, the writers of the show
must be doing something right, or perhaps my brain has zombified due to stress
and I’m just connecting with my kin on the screen.



Does this mean I’ll try reading zombie fiction? Maybe. I
have in the past with disappointing results, but this show proves that the
right writer can make all the difference in the world, so I might pick up
something if I’m suitably tempted. Any recommendations?



What’s my point anyway? I always have a point. Well I do. I
challenge you to read a genre that is something you’ve decided you hated. Not
recently hated, but say a genre you long ago swore off because it didn’t appeal
to you, pick up something like that. Ask friends for recommendations, blog
about it like I am. The thing is, I think to say you’ll never read a particular
genre because a handful (hell even a truckload) of writers failed to impress
you is really only hurting yourself. If I’d decided that my hatred of zombie
fiction was too strong, I’d never have found this kickass show, nor would I
have had some really deep and sometimes funny discussions with my daughter.







Let us know if you do try something new, even if it takes you
up shit creek again.

How to Procrastinate Like a Pro

I am the
queen of procrastination. Not just in writing, but in every area of my life
that requires me to stop fucking around and get to work. If there were an award
for procrastination, I’d be the unbeaten champion. Why do I procrastinate so much?
I work best under pressure. I am more productive when I have no time to do what
it is I need to do. I don’t know why. It’s just how I roll.



For all you
hard workers out there who haven’t a clue what I’m talking about,
procrastination is when you put off till tomorrow what you could do today. Why?
Hell, I don’t know why you put it off. Because you don’t feel like doing it? It
doesn’t really matter why. It only matters that you do it. What you might not
know is that there is some creative and psychological payoff in
procrastination. Seriously.



Procrastination Pro Tip: For every procrastinator worthy
of the title “professional” the making of lists is key. Lots of lists. These
are well-intentioned because you definitely mean
to get this shit done. The act of making the list is procrastination in itself.
You know damn well what you’re doing. Don’t deny it. Once the lists are made,
promptly lose them, so that later, when you’re getting ready to get shit done,
you can procrastinate by searching for the list of what you need to do.



So the
dirty dishes are piling up and the toilet is hiding a gelatinous blob of
something from another planet, and maybe you’re on your last pair of clean
underwear. You could set the laptop down and get it, I mean you’re not doing
anything but perusing LitReactor and updating your Pinterest board after all,
but they’ll be there tomorrow. The only time I worry about dishes is when I’ve
run out of coffee mugs to be honest. Underwear isn’t a necessity. Going
commando is in right now. And the toilet? Until the blob actually moves, it’s
really not a concern. It’s more important for you to run that idea round in
your head while mindlessly flitting around the Internet. How else will it come
to fruition in the form of an outline?



Procrastination Pro Tip: Eat takeout on paper plates using
plastic cutlery. No dishes. See? Perfect. Oh and dump a bottle of bleach in the
toilet once a week. Alien blobs of fecal matter and whatnot hate bleach, and
you can put off cleaning for another week.



Another
important part of being a pro at procrastination is putting off organizing
anything in your home that doesn’t benefit you immediately. So, piles of shit in
the corners can stay there indefinitely as long as there’s no organic matter
like last night’s pizza in there. Besides, you can practice your ninja skills
by navigating your way over and around them. And we all know how handy ninja
skills can be. Got piles of books on the floor, the table and in your closet?
They’re inspiration. Leave them be. Papers, notes, bills, etc. are best left in
the mess you first buried them in. You know damn well if you try to straighten
that shit, you’re going to forget what you did with it when you really need it.
A controlled chaos makes finding things easier, and also, sometimes a happy
accident occurs and you find something you forgot you had. Just the other day,
I found a book I’d scribbled some notes in about a story idea. It was in a pile
of sheets and stuff in my “linen closet.” I was so excited that I bunched the
sheets back into their precarious perch on the cluttered shelves and ran out to
flesh out the idea.



Procrastination Pro Tip: Pay your bills online. This way,
you don’t have to leave the house, which might prompt you to actually…ugh…run
errands.



When editing
is getting you down, don’t be afraid to take a short break on Twitter to cope
with the stress of the utter shit you can’t believe you wrote. You can’t edit
when you’re stressed or sad. Don’t even try. Besides, Twitter is part of the
author platform. You’ve gotta tweet to be noticed, right? Just tweet your heart
out, then go back to the document after you climb out of the black hole that is
Twitter, and you’ll have the stamina to edit at least another paragraph. When
you’re done those five or six lines, pat yourself on the back, close the file,
and grab that book that’s winking at you. A paragraph edited is better than
cutting your wrists out of sheer desperation. Am I right?



Procrastination Pro Tip: Reading is not procrastinating as
long as you’re making note of what the writer did right or wrong. It’s actually
working, if you really break it down and contort it to work in your favor.
Reading helps you improve your writing. When you’re done, you’ll be that much
better at what you do so you can edit or write that brilliant bit of prose with
confidence.



Procrastinators
seem to get invited to shit a lot. It’s ridiculous really. I mean, they know
you’ve got a backlog of work, and yet, they invite you to NOT do it. Trying to
sabotage you, that’s what.



Going
outside is hard. Going out and socializing is harder. But friends and family
get all weird and shit when you try to say no to an invitation, so here’s what
you do: Hedge a little. Maybe say, “Oh I don’t see why not. I’ll see what
(insert name of person you pretend has authority in your life here) is up to
and I’ll let you know. Probably.” So you’re not technically committed. Those of
you who are stupid enough to get caught up on the “my word is law” rule can
breathe easier knowing that you never said you “would” go, just that you “might.”
Then, at the last minute, get off the couch, pull up your soiled underwear and
text or email them. Do. Not. Call. Them. Jesus, are you mental? Calling gives
them the opportunity to guilt you with their “tone.” Don’t ever do that. Make
up an excuse. You’re sick. Your significant other is an asshole. The dog has
worms. Little Johnny got hit by a car. Whatever. Then, turn off your phone and
lock the doors. Socialization averted. You can safely go back to watching True
Blood reruns while contemplating trying your hand at paranormal erotica because
Alexander Skarsgard’s ass is just so inspirational.  



Procrastination Pro Tip: By cancelling social outings and
such at the last minute, you’re forcing your brain to be creative in coming up
with an excuse. Over time, you get better and better, to the point that you can
concoct almost anything. Always a useful skill for a writer.



Now, no
writer ever gets better if she avoids writing all the time. It’s something we can’t afford to procrastinate about
indefinitely. If you don’t write, well then you’re…not a writer. Am I right? Of
course I am. But don’t feel as though you must be a slave to the blank page. Go
ahead and turn on the Playstation or the Wii. Playing video games—particularly
asshole games that make no sense and are fixed so that you can never beat the
fuckers—improves your ability to convey emotion in your writing. How will you
write it if you haven’t experienced it? Exactly. Think of the emotions you’ll
feel: Guilt for turning on the game when you know you should be writing. Rage
at your inability to press the right combination of fucking buttons. Despair
when that deadline looms and yet you’re almost past level 7, and damn it, you’ve
never made it to level 7 in your whole life. Panic when you realize it’s
midnight and those edits are due back to your editor at 8am the next morning so
you turn on the coffee maker and freak the fuck out. Ambivalence when you’re so
goddamn exhausted because you stayed up all night to write something after your
social networking ran a little astray, so you’re not really caring that the dog
shit in the closet or that the cat shredded all the toilet paper in the house. Exhilaration
when you manage to accomplish those edits despite your gaming marathon because you’ve
got sleep licked. You don’t need that mortal shit no more.  You are a writing god.



Procrastinator Pro Tip: Never lack for tools of
procrastination. It’s the worst feeling in the world when you want to do
anything but write, clean, work, etc. but there’s no other option. Television,
books, phones, Internet and even a nice cozy bed are all necessary tools for
effective procrastination. You’ll need a mixture, because sometimes, you might
want to procrastinate on how you’ll procrastinate, and to do that, you need
options.



Also, your
blog is the perfect pit of procrastination. In writing this post, for example,
I put off showering, eating, brushing my teeth, getting dressed, writing
assigned articles, and peeing. I am a professional. You can be one too if you
tried less.

On Humor and Being Funny

I can make
people laugh. I know this. I’ve seen evidence when my friends are all “Stop!”
or “Have another beer!” because booze apparently makes me a downright fucking
riot. I’ve seen it on my blog, on OFW, and in the feedback I get on my writing.
I’m funny. But here’s the problem: I don’t know why.



Seriously,
I don’t know what it is I’m doing that’s so damn funny, aside from being honest.
I don’t try to be humorous, not consciously anyway, but somehow, people laugh
at what I say and do. It’s a little unnerving to be honest. I’ve often been
told I should write humor. Just humor. Nothing else. The advice is coming from
a good place, and I’d like to introduce myself as a humorist or a comedian, but
my gut says “Oh no, sweetheart. That’s a bad idea. You are not that funny.” And
also, I like being serious from time to time, and I like books that have
something to say. Funny doesn’t always do that.



And I am
not so funny I could make a career out of it. Things come out of my mouth that,
in my head sound very intelligent and not humorous, but once they’re out
someone laughs and I nearly shit myself in shock. Sometimes, when I’m supposed
to be sleeping, I’ll go over something I said and try to deconstruct it to find
the funny. I never succeed in this endeavor and then I’m tired and cranky in
the morning because I wasted valuable sleep time in my extremely self-absorbed
ponderings.



If I don’t
know why I’m funny, or what it is about my writing that’s making you all laugh,
how can I sit down to make that a goal? Does any comedian know why they’re
funny? Am I simply normal in that I’m shocked when people are like “God, you’re
hilarious.” Should I be more like, “Of course I am you puny unfunny jackass.”
What is the etiquette among comedians? Do you mention the funny or not? Do you
act humble? I’m horrible at etiquette.



A friend
said the other day that I write satire. I quickly Googled it. I have a grasp of
what the word means, just not how it relates to writing, so shut it.



Satire, as
a literary genre, takes depravities, idiocies, abuses, shortcomings, etc. and
holds them up to ridicule, ideally with the intent of shaming individuals, groups,
or society itself, into improvement.



A common
feature of satire is irony or sarcasm. (I am good at sarcasm, although its effectiveness
is rather hit and miss.) Parody, imitation, exaggeration, comparison, analogy,
and double entendre are also frequently used in satirical writing. With satire
the writer strives to first make people laugh, and while they’re caught off
guard, you then force them to think.



Hmm. Is
that what I do? Yes. I want to make people think. I’ve learned that coming out
with both barrels locked and loaded is not the way to do that. In life, I’ve
often coated my opinions and whatnot in sarcasm and humor to make what I’m
saying more palatable to the recipient. Unless of course they’re fucknuts, then
I coat nothing. You’re an asshole. No joke. No sugar-coating. That’s how I
roll.



But still,
I don’t dare call myself funny or comedic. I think perhaps because comedy is an
art that I’ve always enjoyed, respected and in some cases revered, I can’t put
myself in that position and feel as though I belong. Comedians have a special
skill. It’s damn hard to make people laugh. Sure, we can all make someone laugh, but thousands? Pfft. Good
luck, Chuck. Not gonna happen. It’s a rare person who can tickle the world’s
funny bone. I am not that person.



So how do I
apply my small comedic tendencies to my writing? Should I start focusing consciously
on writing satire? Should I try to make you all laugh? Do I go and research
that which is funny and try to apply this knowledge when I write? (You know I’ve
already done that, right?) Or do I just keep trucking the way I always do and
label whatever results whichever way seems right?



I know, the
question of whether or not I should write humor…or already do write humor,
shouldn’t be so difficult to answer, but it is. If I were to write “Satire” in
a query letter, would that get a snort and a delete? If I leave it out, am I being
inaccurate and thus ruining my odds of getting a request for the manuscript. What
if you people are the only people who think I’m funny? Not that I’m assuming every
one of you thinks I’m funny. I mean, some of you probably think I’m annoying as
shit, and the only reason you still follow this blog is because like me, you
haven’t figured out Blogger’s magical formula for unfollowing a blog.



I. Don’t.
Know.



So I’ll
just keep doing what I’m doing, and we’ll see what happens I guess. What about
you? Did you know the genre you should write in straight off? Or did it take
some experimentation to figure it out? If so, were you surprised at the
results?