January 1
The top 5 mistakes new writers make
Do you know the five easiest ways to keep yourself from getting published?
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January 1
Free retro typewriter fonts
Using a typewriter brings back powerful, tactile memories of my first desktop publishing days. These fonts do it to me, too.
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December 26
The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible. ~~Vladimir Nabakov, Russian novelist, 1899-1977 ....
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Clamoring to become visible
July 28
Indie publishing queen Zoe Winters, who keeps accidentally inspiring me to write these mondo-long blog posts when I’m innocently trying to procrastinate by reading her blog in the first place, spoke today about the myth of The New York Gatekeepers of Publishing. From Zoe’s post: There is a lot of hullabaloo about “good writing” vs. “bad writing”. And how do you know if you’re a “good writer” or not? The sad truth is that you can’t. I think one of the reasons the gatekeepers hold SUCH strong sway over unpublished authors is that they NEED to know if they’re good or not. And the reason they need to know, probably more than other types of artists, is that EVERYBODY thinks they can write. Whether they can or not. Everybody believes they have a book in them. It’s not like other forms of art like painting and sculpting and film where people seem to have some basic grasp of whether or not they suck. So many writers don’t have enough self-confidence. And those that do often end up being the ones everybody mocks for self-publishing crap. So people are afraid if they have self-confidence it must mean they suck and are just deluded. So much ego is wrapped up in the act of writing. When a NY publisher says: “Yes! We will buy this work!” They are validating you. They’re an authority figure. To many writers these gatekeepers mean more to them than end readers. She’s right. Validation is a slippery thing. I’ve found more trouble dispelling that crazymaking need for outward validation than any other aspect of the illusionary writing life. Every time I thought my big break was imminent, something always came along to knock me back down to my comfortable place on the bottom rung. Usually, it was me. And before you say, “Well, I don’t care what other people think, I’m writing for myself,” let me tell you: writing to publish “for yourself” as an end goal is impossible emotional level to hit and score against. Here’s why. As a naive college kid, I remember thinking, “I’ll be a professional writer when I send out my first query letter to a major publishing house.” Then I did just that, and it turned out to be not that big of a deal. My family was unimpressed that the Highlights editor hand-penned a couple of words on one corner of my green form letter. If I remember...
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How to make 100% sure you never get your big break as a writer
July 16
I read a blog the other day (3 Shared Paths, one of my favorites), and the latest post discussed the recent solar eclipse and how long it would be until the next one: 19 years. Rebecca mused on how long 19 years feels—not is, chronologically but really feels—and how much a life can change in that time span. My favorite gem: What will be the themes in your life 19 years from now? Take some time to really think about it because you’re building that time in your life right now. That hit a nerve. Definitely. 19 years ago, I was a different person. Hell, that was three whole people ago. In 1991, I was idealistic, lazy, depressed, and hopeful. Yes, all at the same time. I had my whole future ahead of me and I knew it, so I didn’t waste much time with the present. Unfortunately, that particular present was the last place I had the chance to see my great-grandmother alive. Or visit my childhood home which was later bulldozed for the maintenance area of a public golf course. And it wasn’t long afterward that I had a crisis of faith, my first broken heart (which is really the only one that matters, isn’t it?), and a breakdown in the identity of my youth. So much has changed since then, and I must have been the one that changed it—for better and for worse. I’ve rebuilt, and I’m better for it. You always are. It takes a lot of breaking to make a solid person. That doesn’t mean it was simple. When you’re a kid convinced of invincibility, as all kids are, the first problem is always the hardest. You disbelieve that bad things really are going to happen, or that your turn for old age is just around the corner. Rebecca’s blog post reminded me of a tiny poem I wrote when I was in my 20s: ~30~ when I am thirty I shall believe that I will die for as a child, both thoughts were equally impossible. I find it in a folder again every few years. Umm, yeah. It happened, just as I suspected it would. I was right. The poem’s a bit overdramatic, as many of my twenty-something and teenage poems were, but the concept still fits. Now I know, without a doubt, that I am going to die. I will have a last breath, leave my body, and go wherever...
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100 years are simply not enough
March 30
7 weird things about me
Far be it from me to be accused of taking things “too seriously”, as claimed by this guy.
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February 24
I’m flashing my boobs in public. Literarily speaking, that is. (No, literarily’s not a real word. But it should be.) Literary Mama has seen fit to publish my poem “Brevity”, available by clicking here. It’s a little weird for me, honestly. I adore this particular publication, and have submitted time and again there, only to have two accepted pieces. (Both of those are here, for anyone who’s interested.) And I’ve always sworn by writing what you feel, not what’s comfortable, so there was no oddity at all in my submitting a piece that deals with secret breastfeeding habits that I picked up casually, remember fondly, and don’t tell anyone about because it’s probably kind of gross. Submitting things like that has never been an issue for me at all. Reading poems aloud about private sexual experiences or my personal failures and embarrassments has happened more than once, in groups from five to twenty. I’ve gotten shocked looks, offended a few folks, and been congratulated for my honesty–sometimes even all at the same event. I’m not shy with my words. So why does seeing this particular poem, which isn’t racy, controversial, or even remotely written in blue language, suddenly making me feel so squirmy? Is it because my step-kid is now old enough to be able to follow a link on my blog and see it? Is it because it’s gross, and not at all sexy? I don’t know. But there’s a poem about my nipples at Literary Mama, I’m flinching as I write this, and I wouldn’t change it for the...
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Flashing my boobs
October 19
Fairy tales are getting stupider
Humpty Dumpty? Apparently, according to the BBC, he can’t break now. He ends up happy and superglued. The old lady in the shoe? She now gives kisses instead of whippings.
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September 28
Many thanks to the editors of The Legendary, who saw fit to publish two of my poems, “Loving Darkness” and “Finger Trails” in Issue #9. These are among the older poems that I haven’t trotted out in a while, and it’s nice to see them find a home. If you’d like, you can read them here. ....
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Two poems up at The Legendary
September 24
One controversial blog I read occasionally is called FreeRangeKids. The basic idea here, posed by mother-turned-activist Lenore Skenazy, is that our kids already know what they’re doing. And if they don’t, it’s up to them to figure things out. Want your child to learn how to cook for himself? Then ya gotta let him burn his hands on the frying pan a time or two. Want your kid to be creative enough to play on her own and make up games with sticks? Then you have to cancel some of the fifty-seven extracurricular lessons you’ve scheduled for her and give her time to just wander in the yard without a plan. I agree with this, in theory. Sometimes only in theory. About half of the time, I think the advice is dead on the nose. The rest of the time, the site just pisses me off. That’s probably why I go; adrenaline is a great thing to get you going in the morning when you don’t really want to do the laundry yet. Regardless of why I do this to myself, most of the posts I’ve read from her have sent me into a tizzy in one direction or the other, either wanting to stick up for those who are accused of being overprotective, or reading comments by those who want to lynch them. Today’s post, written by someone other than Lenore, fits into the writing scheme of things, and angers me on a certain level. The full post is here, but here’s the gist: Wait a minute: Are those flashcards in that mom’s hands? At a baseball game? Yes. Yes, they are. She’s holding them up to test her preschooler on her letters and numbers – on a Friday night at Little League. Meanwhile, your kids are playing under the bleachers. Something about a princess and a fire truck and magical cookies…you have no idea what they’re saying. All you know for sure is that your kids are having fun, while the little girl with the flashcards is working on mom-imposed homework and a nervous breakdown before she’s 12. Here’s my take, and what I wrote in the comment trail: I’m sure somebody will be quick to call me a liar, but… I was reading at a third-grade level when I was three. I skipped kindergarten, and I LOVED school. Never fell behind, never hated it, never stopped wanting to find out more things and dig into more...
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Stop judging other parents
