Kern Carter's Blog, page 20
November 10, 2022
You need this skill to get published
And no, it’s not writing
I don’t need to tell you that getting published isn’t easy. There’s a stat I read that said less than one percent of writers secure an agent. I’d imagine that number diminishes when it gets to who actually gets published.
But while it’s hard, it’s not impossible. And to increase your chances of getting published, you need to learn this one skill: how to write a query.
Learning to write a query (or proposal) is the second most important factor to getting published, the first being the actual quality of the book.
That sounds dramatic but it’s true. Agents don’t read your full manuscript. They can’t. And when they send it to publishers, they also send a query to set the story up.
If you do not know how to write a query, your chances of getting published dwindle. That’s just the reality of how the industry currently works.
Writing queries is one of the topics we’ll be covering in our workshop series. If you’re not already on the email list for those workshops, sign up here.
[image error]You need this skill to get published was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
November 9, 2022
November 8, 2022
Tears, Self- Forgiveness, and Acceptance
Image by AuthorI vividly recall waking up and experiencing a tornado storming within my mind causing a thick condensation of foggy thoughts. I breathe deep and inhale into my diaphragm; as I exhale, I attempt to push away the sensation of the surrounding walls closing in on me. I didn’t sleep very well, if at all. Rooted deeply is the feeling of unappreciation interconnected with depreciation. In my current state of anxiousness and overwhelm, my body’s basal temperature shifts and rises to a heat that expands and swells, ready to implode into feelings of resentment and anger. Ugh, why am I still not over this yet? There’s much to be done and only one me, so I tell myself I don’t have time to be in my feels on this day. Snap out of it and pull it together, black woman; the world expects you to place it upon your shoulders and gracefully bear its weight.
No matter how much I want to ball up my feelings and stuff them down into file thirteen, the anger, resentment, and disappointment that riddles my body wins, rendering me paralyzed under my covers as the floodgates lift. An ocean of tears begins to flow in waves from my eyelids. I cry, and I let out a heavy-hearted wail as the agony of nostalgia sets in. At this moment, I allow myself to blame and curse those who disproportionately expected me to bear the burden of their dead weight. There was no asking permission. There was no consideration of what was in my best interest. There was no regard for how their actions or lack thereof would affect me for years and years and years of my life. For two whole decades, I suffered, living in the intense, tumultuous energy of survival mode. I think to myself, why didn’t they consider me? Why didn’t they ask me what I needed? Why didn’t they support me? Why didn’t they teach me? Why didn’t they see me, recognize my pain of being left alone to clean up a mess I didn’t create, and look beyond themselves to understand that I needed them to play their position?
From birth, tumbleweeds entangled with a multitude of challenges continuously intruded, blew through, and stampeded my life non-stop, overtaking me as I failed to outrun them. I whimper to myself; why me?
As I continue to grapple with my emotions, it’s as if a switch is flipped, and a lightbulb of enlightenment sparks within me. I turn my thoughts within; after all, resentment is merely anger turned inward. Like an escalator, my thoughts slowly but surely elevate toward accountability, and I silently admit to myself why the tears are flowing. I am angry at myself for not trusting my inner voice and vision. I am angry at myself for allowing others to push me to question my reality. I am angry at myself for allowing others to make me their mule. I am angry at myself for allowing others to manipulate and guilt me into prioritizing their needs to the detriment of my own. I cry as the anger and resentment release from my deflating body like a shrinking balloon. I am angry at myself; I am angry, I am! Sirens of anger blare within my mind, and internally I scream — I am not guilty! I am not a mule! I am not the proverbial strong black woman! I am not born to carry the world’s weight on my shoulders! I continue to wail and ride the escalator of my emotions toward acceptance. I wearily yet willingly accept the truth of who I am.
I am a black woman that deserves to live a peaceful uncomplicated life! I am deserving of support! I and my feelings are worthy of consideration! I am doing my best, and that’s more than enough! I am! I cry, and I accept. I rise from my wet pillow and wipe the residual tears from my face. I take back my power, I choose how I wish to continue to relate to the disappointments of my past, and I decide to change the narrative of my story. I choose a different ending where I am the heroine, I swoop in like a thief in the night, and I save myself. The tears are no longer flowing. The storm is over, and I am proud!
I have come out unscathed on the other side of life’s former challenges. I didn’t give up, I didn’t fold, and I didn’t give in. I allowed, I flowed, and I withstood. On September 16th, 2022, I cried. I cried for what was. I cried for what wasn’t. I cried for what is no longer and so much more. I don’t need to get over the past. The memories are still there, yet, I am filled with gratitude as I am the epitome of strength, gracefulness, and fortitude. To my past, I pay tribute with the words of the talented Kendrick Lamar, “I pull up, hop out, air out, and make it look sexy!”
[image error]Tears, Self- Forgiveness, and Acceptance was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
Overtime: Overextending at What Cost?
Photo by Luca Bravo via UnsplashFlash Creative NonfictionWe can ignore the elephant in the room — blink quickly away from its direction, but we know it’s there. Rent hikes, soaring gas prices, a twenty percent increase in your favorite foods, and more.
I have worked more hours of overtime this year than I ever have before, and my body . . . well, my body has had enough? I place the question mark because I am too stubborn to realize it on most days, but then other days, I’m snapped back to this reality.
The dog is getting older. She requires different things. The vet’s office receptionists take and take — hold out their hands and wait for my arm and leg and lungs. Every month, there’s something new. I have nothing else to give them other than my breath. It’s the only thing that remains.
I won’t complain.
I won’t complain.
We can ignore the elephant in the room — blink quickly away from its direction, but we know it’s there.
I keep telling myself I’ll just pick up more hours at work; overtime to the rescue! And then my body rejects the air around me. My sinuses swell. My throat becomes inflamed. My joints ache. I cough. I hack. Every step hurts, but I keep walking.
Push through.
Push through.
I have been telling myself to push through for so long, it’s finally caught up with me. Am I too old for this . . . this working more than I can to take care of all these needs?
Every month, there’s something new. I have nothing else to give them other than my breath. It’s the only thing that remains.
But a roof over my head is nice. Sustenance to suit my appetite makes me happy. Preventative medications and proper healthcare for myself and my dog are top priorities.
At what cost, though?
At what cost?
©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt
[image error]Overtime: Overextending at What Cost? was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
Call For Submissions — Gratitude
Special thanks to Kandice Confer for this week’s writing prompt:
I really believe that gratitude is one of the most important forms of expression that we need to incorporate into our lives. For me, gratitude is acknowledging our blessings; the simple and the extreme. It’s taking a moment to say thank you to the universe for the life we’re living, the people who are in it, and for whatever has been provided to us.
We all experience hard times, but those are the instances when you need to turn your gratitude all the way up. It can be hard to see when the obstacles are in front of you, but trust me when I say that there’s always something to be thankful for.
So for this week’s writing prompt, let’s talk about gratitude. What are the things in your life that you’re grateful for?
Same rules as always:You can submit to this or ANY of our past writing prompts. Just scroll through our previous newsletters. They’ll be marked “Call for Submissions.”If you’re already a writer for CRY, go ahead and submit.Be as creative as you want in your submissions. As long as you stick to the topic, we’ll consider it.Just because you submit doesn’t mean we’ll post. If you haven’t heard back from us in three days, consider that a pass.[image error]Call For Submissions — Gratitude was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
Needy Lips
Image by Alesha BurtonI live pretty co-dependent on my family. Metaphorically, I am a child still suckling on my mother’s breast. Physically, I am a haggler. One too shy, too introverted, and way too shameful to actually haggle my family out of their hard-earned cash, so I am haggler only in name. Being inside of my house reminds me of my co-dependency.
I’m trying to learn to cook. I know how to use a frying pan and when the bone marrow I set to sear a little more is burnt. I know how to use a stove and how to cut foil paper and that parchment paper is most definitely better with the little lines that guide where you should place your cookie dough. I know how to ferment with vinegar and wine and blood, but that the latter is tedious and wasteful but it’s fun to see the sheen of a blueberry turned pink.
Is that enough to cook myself a meal? Is that enough to sustain one’s being?
Being inside my home reminds me that I am not the independent woman I like to sometimes pretend I am. I’m just a family-centred, gamer, writer and creator that will go outside if necessary. Like the stereotype of a sun-repulsed vampire. I shut my blinds in and layer my black curtains to grab a couple of hours of sleep inside the coffin.
Co-dependency feels grainy. It feels childish.
I have much more questionable answers in what my future lies. It’s like the fog outside of my house. It looms so thickly that even the light post ahead of you is blurry. The traffic lights are fireflies on an unfocused camera. The trees are shadowy giants and cars coming over the hills are the sun rising on a new day. I can barely make out what’s in my tomorrow, but I cannot see thirty metres ahead of a road I’ve walked nearly every day.
In that lack of future, I latch back onto the breast of the present and let me co-dependency suck every drop of milk. It’s painful, because goal-setting and future-setting are so important, but I keep suckling because it’s easy and gives me a peace of mind.
Isn’t that what we’re all striving for? Peace and quiet in our highway minds?
My peace of mind laid in an envelope given to me by a teacher for an event I participated in. For just a second, the envelope dispelled everything about my co-dependency.
Money. Money. A decent amount for someone who doesn’t buy anything.
Seeing the cash gave me a warm feeling in my chest, like I drank tea that was hot enough to wrap its arms around my still heart and not hurt my tongue.
I think, from that day onwards, heading to school in Downtown Yonindale is an independent action. One that makes me have agency over me. One that makes me feel like all the other adults working at the highrise buildings or the local coffee shops. I am an adult, who can use her own money.
Although I do stick to a budget for dinner, I have gotten much better at budgeting overall. I know how much things cost and how much to save or to use for a quick snack. I know that certain places, like malls, can be more expensive in their food costs, but also allow me much better quality food when going home. I know what is too heavy on my tiny stomach and what won’t fill it.
This small amount of cash has made me feel like someone actually living. Making decisions. Even if it’s just the decision of what bus to take when the train stations shut down on a whim. Even if it’s the decision of what to eat for dinner. The decisions have freed my lungs and lips from the constriction of suckling on that tit of the present.
I am still co-dependent on basically everything when I am inside my home. But the moment I get outside, the air shivers the co-dependency out and fills it with agency. That’s why I love walking to the bus stop. I can dance and wave my arms as necessary without the blind judgement at home.
I think life should be less about throwing people out to the deep end and hoping they’ll swim. If they’re like me, they’d drown without a question. Train people to swim and they will. Let people feel the open waters before pushing them onto a sinking boat. Let people realize that if your world calls for co-dependency, get onto the wheel of life with your life jacket and throw yourself into the adult pool. Allow it to be. It makes the independent moments solid gold.
— Heleza
[image error]Needy Lips was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
