#I’ve been rejected from every agent I submitted to

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

I’ve felt kind of off about my book recently, I’ve had a lot of rejection and I’ve started to think maybe I should just quit.

But then I think: what if one day it’s real? What if one day there is an actual book in the world, with a real cover and real pages and my name written on the real spine? And what if people read it? Maybe one day there’ll be people who want to keep it perfect, who don’t even want to crack the spines, who will lament over the slightest crease to the pretty pretty cover, who’ll keep their copy on a clean, beautiful shelf so pristine and perfect, who’ll share with the pages their favourite book mark with it’s pattern or it’s quote or it’s ribbon or the thousand other things that could make it special; maybe one day there’ll be people who will fold the pages, who’ll crack the spine, who’ll panic because they accidentally dropped it in the bath, who’ll underline their favourite quotes with their favourite pencil that they always have to tell themselves to stop chewing the end of; maybe one day there’ll be people who’ll put pen against the pages, who’ll draw stars and hearts in the margins, who’ll share their every thought on every page that was worth something enough to them to write on; maybe one day there’ll be people who’ll choose the perfect coloured tabs to match the cover, who’ll create a key, who’ll deem me worthy of their favourite highlighters, who’ll be able to look at the pages of their closed copy, run their fingers over those perfect coloured tabs, and see their thoughts as they read laid out before them; maybe one day there’ll be people who’ll borrow it from libraries, who’ll wipe dust from the cover, even if it’s slightly faded with time beneath the plastic sheath who’ll write their names on a card glued neatly into the front so they are part of it forever.

What if I am lucky enough to one day see a book that is not just my soul, but the souls of readers as well?

Keep writing my loves, keep writing 🖤

[renthony]

Hi! Could you talk about what it’s like being an independent media researcher and how you became one? Did you go to school for communications or media studies? How do you make money?

I’m about to graduate college and I really want to go into the media studies field but I haven’t really figured out what the best way for me to do that is. I have a lot of similar research interests as you (animation, censorship, media analysis, queer media) and I’m disabled so I’ve been worried about not having the energy for a traditional 9 to 5 sort of job, so I’d love to hear more about how you’re able to do the research you’re passionate about!

Honestly, I got here by accident, and I'm still figuring things out as I go. I don't make much money and right now I feel like my work is in a period of transition. I have plans, but some days it feels like I'm barely making baby steps.

I started writing when I was pretty young, and I read every single "how to write" guide I could get my hands on via the library or bookstore. I wrote constantly. Short stories, various false starts at baby's first novel, even newsletters for school activities and community clubs. I was most focused on fiction at first, but I learned a lot about nonfiction as well.

I got involved in online writing communities back when forums were still a big deal, and I joined Twitter back in 2009 when it was still new and there was a massive author and freelancer community. (Anyone else remember before retweets were a thing? We had to copy, paste, and manually type out "RT @[user]" like barbarians.) I learned an absolute fuckton about the craft and the industry by talking directly with other writers, literary agents, editors, and various other people in the field. From the time I was like 14, I was interacting with professional writers, sharing my work for feedback, and racking up rejection letters from magazines and literary agents (which was a badge of honor in the communities I was hanging out in, because it meant you were working hard and refusing to quit). When I was 17, my best friend even scraped together money from their shitty fast food job to pay for us to attend a major writing conference in Denver, where we participated in all kinds of classes and panels with industry professionals.

My mother was also writing at the time, and I got a lot of support from her. She had a blog that got a decent amount of interaction, because this was right around the rise of the Mommy Blogger and my mom wrote from the perspective of a socially-isolated tattooed punk mom who never planned to have kids (which was unusual in a landscape of perfect housewives with perfect photogenic babies with weirdly-spelled Mormon names they chose when they were kids). Eventually my mom started writing for a website owned by Yahoo, to supplement the household income while staying home to care for my little siblings. When I decided I wanted to take a whack at freelancing, she gave me a lot of advice on how to get started. I also had a writing class at school taught by a teacher who made it a class project to submit to magazines, so I basically got a head-start on freelance life. I wrote a lot of random articles for a website that's since gone defunct, and I submitted a lot of short stories to contests and magazines. Didn't really make a lot of money, but I learned a ton and got a lot of experience.

When I made it to college, I studied anthropology and French. I'd planned to study history, but switched my track after a single semester because anthropology suited me better. I took a lot of AP classes in high school and did well on all the standardized testing, so I managed to get a full academic scholarship and skip right past a few of my gen eds. Unfortunately for me, I had a lot of difficult life experiences during that time period, and I started to struggle in pretty much everything that wasn't directly related to my degree. I failed Latin so bad I didn't bother to go to the final exam, because even a perfect grade wouldn't have saved me. I fucked up my algebra grade beyond salvation. Those two classes alone tanked my GPA enough that I lost my academic scholarship, and I wound up dropping out entirely. Grades in my required courses were solid, but the scholarship requirements meant I had to do well across the board or lose my funding.

My mother still has debt from getting loans to pursue a master's degree, and I knew damn well I didn't want that kind of student debt piling up on me, so I opted for dropping out. Sometimes I regret it a little, but I honestly think it was the best option. I was having so much emotional upheaval on top of the academic stress that I needed time away to figure myself out. I graduated high school early, so I was like two years younger than everyone around me, and I didn't have many friends. I lived at home and came to campus just long enough to go to class, so I had nothing in common with my classmates who lived in dorms and participated in campus activities. I missed orientation because I registered late, the administration sent me to the transfer student registration day instead of the new student registration day, and I didn't get any "here's how you navigate university life" support. I didn't know I was supposed to have a one-on-one academic advisor for a year and a half, and when I finally met him, his only comment on the matter was, "wow, I wondered why you hadn't come to see me yet!" without any sort of inquiry into how a fuckup on that scale was allowed to happen in the first place. I wasn't set up for success by university administration, and I burnt out hard. I dropped out.

My wife encouraged me to do what was going to be best for me mentally instead of letting finances dictate my next step. She had a steady job, and even though we were still pretty broke, her support let me drop out of college and focus on recovery. A lot of people gave me shit because their perception was that I was dropping out of college to become "just a housewife," and they couldn't fathom why. From my perspective, I'd been given a lifeline.

I took care of our shitty little one-bedroom apartment. I read a lot of books and played a lot of Minecraft. When I felt up to it, I did some more freelancing. My wife was working unholy hours in a factory and we didn't get to spend much time together. I started doing tarot reading as a side hustle, and we started making vague plans to move somewhere better for us, but saving up was hard.

Things felt stagnant for a long time. I didn't write very much, I wasn't really doing anything related to my studies. I wrote when I had energy, and I kept scraping together extra cash doing tarot readings while my wife started working a new job in a lumber yard. Her support is the only reason I was able to recover and figure myself out, so big shout-out to my beloved working woman wifey. God, I love her.

Eventually we packed up and moved to a different state so we could be closer to my family. I got a job baking for a coffee shop. I wrote whenever I could. When I got laid off from the coffee shop, I realized there was no way in hell I could keep working a regular job without sacrificing my health, so I went back to writing full-time. (The Queen of Cups was written during this period.)

At some point I started getting back into anthropology and history research, just for fun. I didn't have money to finish my degree, but I had enough academic experience to know how to track down and evaluate good sources. I wasn't really trying to do anything for career purposes, I was just incredibly bored and wanted to study something again, so I got really, really into studying local history. Once I read everything I could about that, I jumped to another topic I was interested in, and then another. Media studies became my biggest focus as a natural outgrowth of my interests in speculative fiction, animation, and the history of the entertainment industry. I studied anthropology in school because I loved learning how and why humans do the things we do, and media studies always felt like an obvious facet of that. It's part of why I was always obsessed with cave paintings and paleolithic sculptures--people make art! It's what we do! It's what we've always done!

Anyway, I now live in a university town that has resources available to the public, and I have friends who work in various university libraries or as professors. I started making use of whatever I could get access to. I read a lot of nonfiction books from independent researchers pursuing their own passion projects, I got really into video essays on YouTube, and I had the epiphany that you don't actually have to finish college to study and write about things as long as you put in the quality research and source all your information. At some point I started calling it my "DIY academia," which my university-employed friends found utterly delightful.

Honestly, I credit my formal-academia friends with a lot. They've all been an incredible source of support and reassurance, and have helped me track down quite a few sources I was having trouble getting my hands on. Everyone do yourself a favor and make friends with someone who works in a university library.

I started a Patreon several years ago (in like 2017 I think?), primarily for my fiction writing, but there's plenty of other things that have shown up there over the years (art, cosplay, essays, etc.). As I started getting more into my DIY academia, folks started expressing interest in seeing me write about it. My tumblr posts about media generated a decent amount of attention, I'd managed to build up a platform, and it wasn't hard to say, "okay, screw it: I have freelance experience and I know how to write a paper, does anyone want to pay me for it?"

I haven't been submitting to existing publications like I used to, mostly because I don't have a decent portfolio assembled. My old freelance work in high school and college was for a platform that closed down a decade ago, and no matter how popular they get I can't bring myself to include tumblr posts alongside professional credits. My current plan is to build a portfolio on my website showing off the commissions I've been taking, and then start submitting to magazines and newspapers again between my other work. I'd love to eventually write for something like Polygon or IGN.

It's hard. I love research, I love writing, and I love sharing information with people, but having to DIY everything is really, really hard. I often feel like I'm just throwing nonsense into the void in the hope someone will like it and leave a tip in my Ko-Fi. I don't have formal academic credentials beyond "I was planning my senior thesis about the ethics of investigating ancient burial sites, but then I dropped out." I just have a neurodivergent brain, a handful of special interests, a wife who works the graveyard shift in a lab to pay our bills, and the ability to hyperfixate on research for absurd lengths of time.

The most common advice I used to get about freelancing is that you just have to keep throwing things at the wall to see what sticks. It's been years since then, but I think the advice still applies. Read a lot, learn a lot, and write about the things you're most interested in. Search around and look for magazines and newspapers and websites that accept unsolicited freelance submissions. Read the other articles they publish to see how your work stacks up. Submit, submit, submit. Rake in rejection letters and keep them as a reminder of how hard you're working. If you're up for it, start a Patreon to post the things you don't submit elsewhere. The worst thing that can happen is that people don't give you money, but maintaining it still helps you lay the groundwork for a portfolio and a reader base.

I deal with a lot of hellacious impostor syndrome. I worry a lot that I'm just a hack who doesn't actually know what they're talking about. Like I said, I got here totally by accident, but whatever I'm doing seems to be working for me. I'm broke, but my work is being read, and opportunities for more work show up when I least expect them. I'm not sure what's next for me, but I'm excited to figure it out. Money's tight, but I keep enduring despite the chaos. I throw things at the wall, I see what sticks, I clean up whatever flops and then try it again later. Wash, rinse, repeat.

It's hard, but so is everything else. I like it better than a lot of other things I could be doing.

[urimaginarygirlfriend]

hey marie!! how are you my love??

i miss you xx 🫂💗

hiii manny!!

i miss you too, i’m sure you’ve seen me subtly stalking your page every few days. i’ve got my first uni class starting on wednesday and i’m very nervous but also very excited. it’s an intro latin class and while i’m typically terrible with languages, i feel this will be different. no one here is studying classics but i am and i feel like i’ve already isolated myself.

also, i find it hard to eat 3 meals a day. just being on campus for the weekend has proven to me that i’d rather be productive or entertained than get up and eat a meal. it is very scary as someone whose always had body issues but never an ed. i don’t want uni to be the place where it starts (as much as i pretend to). i’ve bought some snacks to keep in my dorm but i also have tea and i’m worried it’s too effective at curbing hunger.

and finally, i’ve been thinking a lot about my art and my existence as an artist in general. i want to commit to being an artist. since i decided not to go to film school or study literature, i have to be serious if i ever want to be noticed. write and create obsessively as if i’d die without it. and i think following other artists on social media has been hurting me. because i just consume their content without creating any of my own. in joana rakoff’s memoir “my salinger year,” she works as literary agent. she spends so much time reading other people’s work that she forgot she was a writer herself. that’s slowly happening to me, in some weird way.

and i feel discouraged because no one is noticing me. not even my ‘so-called’ friends! they don’t watch my videos, they don’t read my short stories, and they sure as hell don’t watch the play that i took a lot of time recording and uploading so it’d be accessible. i feel like i’m doing all i can and just nothing is working. i’m a tree falling in a forest when no one is around…

i hope to submit to some literary magazines and screenplay/playwriting contests before the end of the year. maybe make another short film too that no one will watch. idk i just don’t know how to not stagnate. i know success isn’t overnight but i look at big creators and it feels like theirs is. or at least, they had some fans at the beginning. i’m literally starting from nothing.

i got accepted into a film program at the uni of edinburgh that only accepts 20-ish students per year. they wanted to take a chance on a weird american girl making weird art. i had to say no, but they chose me. before i clicked that reject button, i was someone. i was smart and cool and creative and worth something. they looked at me and thought i could go far with only a bit of guidance. now, i’ve got nothing. i’m an idiot with a camera in one of the worst cities in the whole US and i’m rotting away my life. do i still have the chance to be someone if there’s no one looking?

sorry if this got too deep and you didn’t read to the end. i’ve been writing about this in my diary for months with no one to tell because i wasn’t sure anyone cared. but i’m sure you care… right?

[veronicaleighauthor]

God Wrote Through Me

I’ve been writing since I was about eleven years old. When I was fourteen, I became an evangelical Christian and it wasn’t long before my writings started to reflect my beliefs. And there was initially nothing wrong with that. After all, I believed – and still believe – that God is the One who blesses us with all of our gifts. I should honor Him with those gifts. Around the time I was sixteen, I came up with this *EXTRAORDINARY* idea for a novel and set about to writing it. It was different from what I had written before; it was more of a serious piece of work and it had potential. The writer’s workshop I was involved in encouraged to continue on with the project.

And I did. I had so many plans for that novel, that it would be the first of a series and that it would leave a mark on the literary world, that it was a masterpiece that changed the world. I spent years working on it and in that time, I became convinced that God Wrote Though Me. Whatever I put on the page, was divinely inspired. The Holy Spirit was upon me as I wrote, I was a vessel. You get the picture. When I was about twenty, I believed it was ready to submit to the literary agents and I waited, knowing within my soul that this was God at work in my life. The literary agents would scramble to represent me and the publishers would fight over who would publish me. The world would devour my novel(s) and the world would turn to Jesus because of what I had written.

I’m sure you can guess what happened next. Nothing…Well, nothing except hundreds of rejections. I say hundreds because every year after some revisions on my novel, I’d submit to the same agents over and over again. Apologies to those I pestered during that ten-year period – yes, I spent ten years on a WIP, obsessed with it, and convinced that it was a miracle on the page.

I personally feel there’s a danger believing in the God Writes Through Me mentality. Again, I do believe that God gives gifts and talents to everyone, and I do believe He can inspire us and lead us to what we’re meant to do. But saying that when you sit down and write is basically God Himself writing – to me it’s a form of blasphemy. If we truly believe the Bible is divinely inspired, that it’s holy and perfect, we couldn’t possibly create something like that.

So, when did I move past that novel and that whole mentality? In my late twenties, I was finally able to let it go and move on from it. It was hard and I was devastated – I spent so much time on it. It was a dream that turned to dust, but it was also an idol that had come first even before the Lord Himself. When I put the novel on the proverbial shelf, I started writing in other genres and then even got published. Multiple times. I was no longer limiting myself as an author and I was free from a mentality that held me back, and took God off of His throne.

Well, I’ll step down from my preachy soapbox for now. But I hope whoever reads this will avoid my mistakes and not let a mentality get in the way of their growth as a writer.

Until next time!

[literaticat]

I’ve been querying a MG fantasy lately and I have had some success with requests and pitch party likes but I got a personalized rejection the other day (from an agent who did have MG fantasy on their accepted genres list which is an important point to add here) that said they liked my query and my writing but the middle grade market is “weird” and “too hard to sell in.” Usually I’m pretty good at ignoring rejection letters and moving on to the next one, but I have heard that MG grade is brutal right now and a rejection that read very much like “Your book is fine but you should just give up because the age doesn’t sell anymore” is kinda messing with my head. Can you please confirm or deny if it really is near impossible to sell middle grade? Should I just sit on this story for a while and hope the market changes?

I have answered a lot of "IS MG BRUTAL" questions in the past couple of months, including a couple in the past week, like here and here.

MG is brutal at this moment, yes. AND YET. As I've said multiple times on multiple posts in the very recent past: That does not mean zero MG books are getting through.

(I've gone on submission with MG books this year that have gotten crickets in response. But I've also SOLD MG books this year. My colleagues would likely say the same. Publishers keep putting out new ones and I'm sure they will continue to do so, these books didn't materialize from the ether! Somebody submitted them, and somebody bought them!)

So if you feel your book is ready, the best it possibly can be, and all that stuff -- I see no reason why you shouldn't try? Like, what's the harm in trying?

Will some agents say no because MG is tough right now? Probably, though that won't be the ONLY reason. If "the market" is the reason given, I'd bet they already rep MG that they haven't sold, and are feeling discouraged / exhausted by the idea of adding MORE to the mix when they still have those unsold books on their plate. You can't control that.

Might there be an agent who loves the book and thinks they CAN sell it and wants to try? Very possibly!

Will the market change? Certainly.

When? Sorry, couldn't tell you. The only thing I know for sure is that change is inevitable, and different categories go through different upward and downward patches, and that's literally just how it is. Like how flared jeans or crop tops re-emerge every now and then for no particular reason. Maybe it will all be different in two weeks. Maybe in two months. Or two years. Or TEN. I have no idea.

Should you "sit on this story"? If you want? But I really don't see a problem with trying, since you're ready. Meanwhile, write something different. If this ms doesn't go, don't BURN IT or anything -- hang on to it and revisit at a later date.

[therussellpeck]

Infection Protocol

So this is the first thing I ever wrote that I finished and had any kind of pride in, it’s just shy of a year old, I’ve submitted it to magazines and been turned down. But now I’m going to post it here for people to read. 

I imagined this as one episode/event/story within a larger setting I’m working on setting more stories in. There’s a few easter eggs and references, at least in the characters, let me know if you catch them. Also let me know if you like it, Kessler will appear in more stories as I’m currently planning them.

“Yes, I understand. No. I’ll take care of it myself.” Agent Lawrence Kessler informed the woman on the other end of the line before hanging up. The breath out of his lungs misted in the cool mountain air.

Kessler shut the office door behind him, keeping his eyes away from the old kennel and its current occupant. His rookie partner, Scott Cord. OMEN had sent the pair of them after reports of a werewolf in the Wallowa National Forest. 

Tonight Cord lay on the floor of the long unused dog kennel, groaning weakly as he had been since the night before. His uniform had been stripped down to the shirt on his back and hispants. The rest of it was in the truck. The home office had told Kessler that he had to stay strong and follow the infection protocol. There was no quarter given in their line of work and he knew what he had to do before leaving. 

If there was a single ounce of liquor in this building or any of the little sheds surrounding it, then he would have found it. There wasn’t anything. Dry as a bone.  “Damn.”

The sun had set twenty minutes ago. Soon the choice would be taken out of his hands and he didn’t know if that was a curse or a blessing. It wouldn’t make him feel any better about this. Cord was a good kid. Reckless, liked to run his mouth, but he was a good kid when he didn’t feel like he had something to prove. He could still make the choice himself. Lawrence should have taken point and gone in front. That decision would have saved him this whole position. Scott would have made the call a lot easier and he’d have made the right call. Lawrence's trigger finger was faster than Scott’s. It was the fastest in their whole agency. But he had to be prepared to pull that trigger.He should have called in when the kid had been bit. But he’d held off, hoping it had been a dry bite. But werewolves weren’t vipers. Every bite spread infection. The way the kid’s fine blonde hair had gone dark and coarse gave away that he was changing and there was no hope for him. In two hundred years of active scientific research there was no signs of a cure. Just silver.

He could leave him here. Hope that the kennel kept him in place until he starved, or turned back and decided to end it himself. 

The gun lay on the desk in front of Kessler, the desk lamp keeping it easy to see, easy to grab. It wasn’t loaded. The clip lay next to it on the old beaten wood. Protocol dictated that an infected agent be executed to contain the spread.There was half a clip, seven rounds in that clip. He only needed one. It was like putting down a dog who had contracted rabies. He did always hate how Old Yeller ended. 

Suddenly Cord sat up, and then he was convulsing. It was hard not to look because it sounded as if he was beginning to choke on his own tongue. And then came a sound like drowning. Two days ago Scott Cord was the healthiest little shit  Lawrence Kessler had ever met. Now the choice was out of his hands. Except it wasn’t. He could still walk away, but he couldn’t. Not really, not in good conscience. He kept his eyes on the gun and the ammunition. 

Cord was sounding less and less human.Then he was screaming. The louder the noise from the kennel, the more intently Kessler stared at the gun in its spotlight. The more he thought about the way the dust smelled when it mixed with the blood coming up in Cord’s throat. Spilling on the floor as his body rejected its former nature for the new one.

Could he pick up the gun without trembling? He’d never shot and killed anyone before. He’d never even put down a dog. He had killed monsters. Never a person. As long as he didn’t look then he could keep thinking of Cord as the stupid kid who charged off after the werewolf. The gun did tremble in his hand, but remained empty. He could refuse to look but the sound was impossible to ignore. The clip lay on the desk not a second longer and was locked and loaded as the weight of the thing Cord had become pressed against the metal trappings of the kennel. Kessler’s eyes finally met with Cord’s, or what used to be Cord. The firearm was raised, the hardest part was he could still see the human beneath the fur and the blazing yellow eyes. The sound of thunder cracked the air and then Kessler delivered to the kid his saving grace. A blessed death before he could be the thing they hunted.

The truck felt unbalanced as he drove away. Like he was missing something.  He wasn’t. OMEN was an agency for protecting people from the things that went bump in the night. The kid had just been another victim of the age-old struggle. Kessler had to believe that or he’d killed him for nothing. It was a long drive back to the home office, DC was far from Idaho. What was the story they’d spin for the kid’s mother?

[razieltwelve]

My Origin Story

I’m often asked about how I got into self-publishing. It’s something I’ve talked about in previous posts, but I want to talk about it again. It’s been years since I started, and I think time has given me something of a different perspective.

I’ve wanted to be a writer for a long time. However, I first began to take my writing more seriously in high school. I started posting my writing on the internet under various pseudonyms, and I gradually honed my skills. I won’t say I was good back then, but I steadily became less horrible. It still wasn’t something I showed to people I knew in my everyday life, not even to my family. My writing was, in my opinion, still too rough and raw to present to others, except via the anonymity of the internet.

Fast forward to university. I continued to improve my writing as best I could. In fact, I devoted most of my spare time to writing. It was at this point that I began to write fan fiction. Now, I can already tell what some of you are thinking, but writing fan fiction was honestly the best decision I could have made at the time. Fan communities are wonderful things. You don’t have to be the best writer to be welcomed, and you can get access to a far larger amount of critique and advice than you would get as some random lone writer on the internet.

My writing improved markedly during this time since I was now getting regular feedback. Now, obviously, it’s true that most fan fiction readers aren’t professional writers or critics. Sometimes, all you get is “I like the bit where people got stabbed”. Yet amongst all of the one word reviews, random hate messages, and simple but welcome words of encouragement, you do meet people who are genuinely interested in helping you improve. I’m talking about detailed reviews that can be pages long, covering everything from sentence construction to overarching plot critiques.

In my Honours year, I finished my first novel. Before you ask, it’s not something that I’ve published although I do intend to go back and fix it up one day. What mattered wasn’t how good it was. No. What mattered was that I actually finished a novel-length story. It was a bit of mess at times, but it was 100,000 words of original fiction. Sure, it wasn’t great, but it was mine. I actually printed it out and had it bound in a manner similar to my Honours thesis.

During my PhD years, I continued to write, and I began to submit my short stories to fiction magazines while sending out inquiry letters to agents and publishers about my longer stories. Over the four years of my PhD I wrote three novels and many short stories.

And this is where my origin story takes a bit of a dark turn.

Do you want to know how many short stories I got published?

Zero.

Do you want to know how much interest I got from publishers and agents about my longer stories?

Zero.

That’s right. I got absolutely zero interest from anyone about my original fiction.

That’s not a good feeling, let me tell you. It can be very disheartening. I might have thrown myself into fan fiction with a bit more enthusiasm then because at least there, in those communities, people liked what I wrote. Despite all the rejections from publishers and agents, I could at least say that in certain communities, my writing was well-loved and respected.

After bashing my head into the proverbial wall for a couple of years, I began to look into self-publishing. If my writing was genuinely good, then surely I’d be able to sell at least a few copies if I self-published. I wasn’t going to get ahead of myself and predict best-seller status or anything, but I had to be able to sell something, right?

I spent the next few months studying the market and learning how to make eBooks and design covers. Finally, I was ready. The very first book I self-published was The Last Huntress. That book was a labour of love. I pored over every sentence. I obsessed about the characters and the setting. I promoted it as best I could via the communities I was a part of, and then I sat back and waited for the magic to happen.

That last part, the bit about the magic? That was sarcasm.

There was no magic.

In that first month, I sold something like 17 copies.

All told, that translated to around $6.50 for me.

Staring at that result was not the happiest moment of my life. I did the mental arithmetic. Even if I increased my sales a hundred fold, it still wouldn’t be enough for me to make a living via writing. Heck, I could increase my sales three hundred fold and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Luckily, my years of unrelenting failure had somewhat numbed me to this latest failure. I decided to try again. The sequel and some other stories actually managed to do a little better, but that was hardly saying anything. It’s kind of like how if your leg has been cut off, you probably won’t feel the pain of a broken finger all that much.

After a full year of massive failure, my knee decided to explode because of course it did.

Cue surgery.

Cue misery.

Cue six weeks with my leg locked straight in a brace.

Sitting on my couch with my leg propped up beside me, I decided that I wanted to write something different. No more serious fantasy. No more high fantasy. My humorous fan fiction was what had first endeared me to readers, so maybe it was time to write something funny. Besides, it might take my mind off the fact that I had weeks of my leg in a brace to look forward to along with months of physiotherapy.

And don’t even me started on how awkward it was to have a bath or use the toilet.

I was throwing around ideas for what kind of story I could write when a scene came to mind: a necromancer being forced to beat his own wayward creation to death. All I really had was that one scene. It sounded pretty funny to me, so I started writing just to see where it would go.

Two Necromancers, a Bureaucrat, and an Elf is what that idea became.

That book sold more copies in a month than all of my previous books combined had managed in a year. In fact, it managed to outdo all of my previous books combined several times over.

I can’t tell you how much it meant to me to see those numbers rolling in. It wasn’t a bestseller by any means, but it was the first time that I began to think that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t wasting my time, that maybe I could actually do this.

Things have changed a lot since then.

I’ve written more books, and although they’ve had varying degrees of success, they’ve all done so much better than I could ever have imagined during the doldrums of that first year. Humour, it seems, is what I’m best suited to, along with slice of life, and I’m more than happy to embrace that. I’ve even been lucky enough to have some of my books turned into audiobooks.

So there’s my origin story.

It’s easy, I think, to only remember the things that worked, but it’s important to remember the failures too. Writing isn’t an easy thing to do, especially if you’re aiming to make a living out of it. People can be cruel. You’re going to get reviews from people saying that you’re awful, that your story sucks, and that you should quit writing. But you’re also going to get reviews telling you that your story made someone’s day, that you made someone smile, that they can’t wait for the next book.

I wouldn’t be the writer I am today without those years of failure and disappointment. One of the most important qualities to have if you’re going to write humour is the ability to laugh at yourself and to make light of both the very strange and the very mundane. Moreover, a writer should be honest with themselves if they want to improve.

You can argue with reviewers. You can argue with critics. But you can’t argue with $6.50 worth of sales in a month.

I suppose that’s why I tend to be quite sympathetic to the underdog in my writing. I am one. I know what it’s like to put your heart into something and come up empty handed. I had that happen to me for years. I also know how important it is to celebrate the little wins and the small triumphs. Sometimes, they lead to bigger things, and sometimes, they’re all you have.

Well, that’s it. That’s my origin story.

It’s not exactly glorious. It’s filled with more than its fair share of failures. But it is my story. Mine. And that matters. Anyone who tells you that there isn’t some luck involved in the writing business is crazy. Luck is definitely a thing. But just being lucky isn’t enough. It takes years of hard work to become good enough to make the most of that luck, and it takes a certain level of idiocy/stubbornness to keep going despite everyone slamming doors in your face.

It’s a good thing, then, that I’m a lucky, stubborn idiot.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here or on Audible here. Also, just in case you missed it… The Sheep Dragon is out on Audible now! Get it here. It’s 26 and a half hours of fun, humour, and adventure!

[thelanternlight]

Every once in a while someone will come to me and say this phrase: "Why haven't you been published yet?" Usually this is a family member or close friend because these are the only people that read my work (I am not surrounded by readers, as it happens unfortunately, and so many are amused that I write books but do not necessarily want to read them - those that *are* readers tend to shy away from my work because they know me personally and it would be awkward for them to read something of mine and then not like it. And of course there's always the fact that as long as I'm an unpublished author some people will immediately assume that my work is not good and not worth the investment of time and bother).

Despite the little dance I do in conversation following "that question" where I qualify/defend my work or else try to excuse away or ask forgiveness for being self-published, there really is only one answer. That answer is simple: "I don't know how."

Certainly, every once in a while I'll go through literary agents from the Writers' Market or some other highly-touted hub, or else I'll check to see if a House accepts submissions directly from unpublished authors, and I'll follow whatever guidelines to the letter (so that they don't see a manuscript with a slightly-incorrect format and instantly throw it out). I've done this for several agents and Houses and so far the most I have ever received is an auto-generated email response when I send the manuscript that says "thanks for submitting, you won't hear from us unless we're interested." Which makes perfect sense from their perspective but for me I have no idea if that person even received what I sent, much less any sort of reaction to my work or even the manuscript submission itself. There's been no feedback so I have no idea if I'm doing it right or not. I have no idea.

Furthermore, I do check sites and books and ask people for advice on how to get this done. And no one really knows, or at least no one I've asked has been able to give me anything that’s been something I could use. In today's world there are a LOT of aspiring authors. A lot. ESPECIALLY IN FICTION. I cannot emphasize enough the sheer amount of people who want their novels published. And with the time that people have had during lock-down there are even more hopeful authors with manuscripts trying to get published. I'm not good with competition to begin with so how do I even attempt to single myself out? ...No idea. As well, all those sites out there really only give "tips" and those tips aren't always immensely helpful. In fact I find a lot of them copy-and-pasted from one source to various others. Here's one that made it to Harper's Bizarre for example:

1. Find the right agent for you

2. Sculpt a brilliant synopsis

3. Make sure your work is the best it can be

4. Write, write, and write some more...

5. Do your research, particularly if writing non-fiction

6. Read your work aloud

7. Make sure your writing is relevant

8. Don't just send your manuscript to anyone

9. Make sure the first chapter does your book justice

10. Don't be put off by rejection

This advice is obtuse and ambiguous. How does one find the "right" agent? At this point I'll take almost any agent who will give me the time of day after I send a submission. Sculpt a brilliant synopsis? Gee, I sure hope it's brilliant but I believe you mean to say "don't just summarize your novel". Lol, "Make it brilliant"... that's like saying, "Make sure your synopsis doesn't suck." Like great, yeah, I think it's pretty good but now what...

I don't know what I'm doing when it comes to getting published. I don't know how to do it apart from researching qualified agents and Houses and sending my manuscript as precisely outlined in their submission guidelines as humanly possible. And while I haven't sent out hundreds of submissions I have attempted this whole shabang many times already.

So again, when people ask me "Why haven't you been published yet?" the answer is always the same: I don't fucking know how. If YOU know how then by all means I'd love the help, but stop looking at me like I'm lazy or haven't thought to get published. I have. I've tried it. I don't know how to do it. I have no idea how to get published and it causes me tremendous anxiety. I feel worthless and empty because of it whenever it's brought up. I avoid talking about my work because I don't want to be asked "that question".

I am an author, not a businessman. I don't know the business side of this world and frankly everything I do know about it is disgusting. Overly competitive, overly monetized... everything that kills creativity. It's all as foreign to me as it is to you, so there's my answer. That's why I chose to self-publish; because I have no idea how to get traditionally published and every time I attempt to do it I have nothing to show for it. As in I have nothing, good or bad or indifferent, to show for the effort. At least with self-publishing I have something to hand someone and say "here, read my stuff". At least I have a physical product to sell. Otherwise, there's nothing but me sending out submissions like ocean-lost messages in bottles. Yes, I DO want to be a published author, but I. do. not. know. how.

[bettsfic]

2020 in writing

time for my annual writing recap!! as always, i sit here thinking “wow i didn’t do jackshit this year.” but i did! just, mostly at home, in pajamas. here are the highlights:

got an agent

i talk about that a bit here. considering i’ve had “get an agent” on the top of my goal list for going on 3 years, it feels like a big win.

was a finalist for a prize

i didn’t win any of the competitions i submitted my short story collection to, but i was a finalist for the hudson prize! just happy to have the cv line tbh.

submitted/applied to a lot of things

(sorted by decision date, not submit date.)

totals:

18 contests (13 rejected, 3 withdrawn, 2 made the final cut)

17 publications (13 rejected, 2 encouraged to submit again, 2 active)

2 residencies (2 rejected)

no acceptances all year on the submission front, which really upset me for a long time. hoping to do a summer residency next year and get a story acceptance somewhere.

started a phd

+ found out the phd of a prestigious program is way, way harder than the mfa of a really chill program :(

also i got all As, which shouldn’t even be a thing, but i spent so much of the semester getting Bs and Cs that idk how i ended up pulling them up at the end.

i wrote a bit about the phd here.

attended 3 residencies/traveled a lot (pre-covid)

i started the year at a residency in tennessee, then i flew out to texas to visit a friend, drove with said friend to mississippi to visit the school i now go to, then i went to georgia for the second residency which had the best food i’ve ever eaten in my life, and then did the third residency in nebraska which was the highlight of my year, except for, yk, the pandemic. in total, with all the driving i did, i visited 13 states.

i wrote about residencies a bit here. 

launched creative coaching services

this is something i’ve wanted to do for a long time, and i finally did it, and it’s going honestly better than even my highest expectations or aspirations. very excited to see how next year goes.

got way faster at reading

one of my major hesitations with the phd is that i knew it would be a ton of reading, and i’ve never been a very fast reader. so i did some research on how to read faster and figured out that part of the reason i read so slowly (and, conversely, retain so much; not eidetic but i definitely have a better verbal memory than most) is because i subvocalize and my eyes stop at every word. once i learned how to turn that on and off, and strategically move my eyes to land only twice per line of text, i figured out how to better control my reading speed (at the sacrifice of some comprehension). now i can read over twice as fast as i could at the start of the year. hoping next year i bring up the comprehension with the reading speed. 

wrote 375k words

55k fewer than 2019 but that’s fine. this last semester really kicked my ass. also, i think part of the problem is that i write everything 3 times and only take the final word count for the spreadsheet, so nearly everything listed as complete here has been rewritten start to finish at least once.

as you can see, i’ve struggled to finish things this year. 

year over year word count comparison:

2020: 375k

2019: 430k

2018: 450k

2017: 150k

2016: 343k

2015: 250k

2014: 311k

seven year total: 2,309,000

& other stuff i’m proud of

i’ve gotten a lot better at cooking? (i was really very bad at cooking at the start of the year, and only realized it when i started doing residencies and realized most adults don’t have the same toxic relationship to food that i do. i’m still bad at cooking! but i enjoy it now at least, and feel like it’s a worthwhile use of my time)

i have health insurance finally and i no longer have to get my medications from sketchy/illegal places

i paid off my student loans!

finally made a masterdoc of all my writing advice posts (i’ll post the link soon!)

2020 goal recap (from 2019)

get an agent -- yep!

sell a book -- nope

finish another novel -- nope (finished 2/3rds of one)

finish short story collection -- yep!!

2021 goals

keeping it simple again.

sell zucchini (short story collection)

finish vandal (novel)

rewrite cherry pop (novel)

thank you!!

thank you to everyone this year who sent kind asks and comments, insightful writing questions, or well wishes while i was feeling down! i feel like things are finally starting to come together, writing-wise, if nothing else, and i hope 2021 is a better year for all of us.

prior year recaps: 2015 | 2016 | 2017 | 2018 | 2019

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Any updates on the publisher search?

Hi, thanks for asking! :)

I don’t have news as of yet, right now I’m in the querying process where I send my cover letter, synopsis, and a sample of my manuscript to agents who can then choose whether they’d like to represent me and try selling my book to a publisher. I’ve also submitted to a small publishing house but personally I’d prefer to go in with an agent if possible since I don’t know a great deal about the publishing industry beyond the research I’ve done for myself online. As of right now I’ve submitted to 20 agents and am waiting on replies from 8 of them; from the others I’ve either had polite rejections or no response for long enough to consider the query ‘closed’. Publishing is a very competitive business and agents receive an awful lot of submissions so it’s not always possible for them to reply to every one, they usually have a time frame up on their website (in my experience this tends to be 4-12 weeks) where they ask you to assume rejection if they haven’t been able to reply to you within that time frame.

I’m remaining hopeful and I do have other options on my mind of people to query, but if this doesn’t end up being the way my book is supposed to enter the world I do intend to look into other routes; this book means so much to me. I have dedicated an unreasonably amount of time to writing, editing, and worldbuilding, and although when I started this in 2020 I never imagined I’d be trying to publish it I think that this story deserves to be told. I love my characters and I don’t want to give up on them I really think there are people out there who will love them too ❤️

(At least I really hope so 😂)

[alleiradayne]

Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story…

THE MIDNIGHT RIDE

Long is our list of ghost stories laid to rest. But when the dark rider returns thirty years after his exorcism at the hands of the Winchesters, Sam, Dean, and I are faced with the possibility that we’ve been wrong about one thing.

Some urban legends never die.

Part II - Tales From the Crypt

Summary: In Sleepy Hollow, New York, Sam, Dean, and the reader begin their investigation. Warnings/Tags: A dead body, talk of bodily harm, language, alcohol consumption, and some flirting. Characters/Pairings: First Person Female!Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Word Count: 3,103

“We were able to identify most of the bodies, but a few are still John or Jane Does.”

The coroner led us around a table where a cadaver lay covered by a thick white sheet. She continued talking as she drew the sheet to the corpse’s waist, but I heard little and less of what she said. I barely stifled a yawn before sipping from my thermos. Coffee scalded my tongue but I’d rather deal with that than pass out on my own two feet at four o'clock in the afternoon.

Sam and Dean had insisted on driving through the night. Every time I had managed to fall asleep in the Impala, I had woken up sore and aching ten minutes later. So instead of risking another chiropractor bill, I had researched what I could of The Headless Horseman. Unfortunately, I had learned next to nothing besides boring variations on the same bullshit story from the urban legend.

Another yawn scattered my thoughts, and my vision finally focused on the exposed body before me. Headless as expected, no surprise there. Lacerations crisscrossed all over the torso and what remained of the neck, also expected. But something about those lacerations piqued my interest and so I leaned closer.

Thin black crusting outlined every cut, no matter how deep or superficial. The coroner and Dean were chatting amicably when I prodded Sam in the rib. He regarded me with a raised brow as I pointed at the lashes and said, “Look.”

Sam bowed in beside me, and the scent of his freshly washed hair filled my nose. So close, I eased into his warmth and leaned closer. “That,” I muttered as I pointed. “Aren’t those burns?”

He eyed me with a suspicious sideways glance before his smile spread across his lips, and he nodded. “Good catch, Y/N,” he started. “But the lashes alone are confusing. Since when does the Headles—”

“We’ll get back to you if we learn anything else,” Dean said loud enough to drown out Sam. “Thank you for your time, miss.”

Sam and I followed Dean’s lead and thanked the coroner for her time as well. She thanked us in return—flashing a warmer than casual smile at Dean, who blushed—and covered the cadaver as we headed for the door.

In the hallway, Dean breathed a sigh of relief. “Christ, she’s too smart.”

“What, did she reject you before you even asked?” Sam jested.

Dean tossed a tentative glance my way. “Nah, I got her number. But after that, she started asking about the decapitations and the lashes looking strange…” He trailed off as we stepped out into the cool fall breeze and pale October sun. “I don’t think she knows more, but I’ll have to be on my toes later.”

“And by later you mean after we finish this hunt, right?” I asked across Sam.

At the car, Dean popped the driver’s door open, then said, “She asked me out tonight.”

As they slid into the front seat, I eased into the back. “And you said what?”

He shot me a dark glare in the rearview mirror. “I asked her for a rain check until this weekend.”

Wow. “Okay, I’m impressed,” I replied.

“I’m… not surprised,” Sam replied. “Considering what’s going on.”

The Impala roared to life as Dean twisted the key in the ignition. When he pulled away from the curb, I leaned over the backrest and asked, “What is going on?”

Sam shot a nervous look at Dean before he took a deep breath. “Can we solve the case first?”

When he turned to look at me, I glared back. Earnest. Honest, even. But I wasn’t about to let my feelings for him cloud my judgment. “No. I need to know what we’re up against and...” I paused, my attention snared by the houses we passed. Every yard displayed a scene from the urban legend that had put Sleepy Hollow on the map. Various iterations on The Headless Horseman stood in every yard, myriad pumpkins and overly detailed horses impressively crafted. But each and every rider had a jack-o-lantern for a head or held one aloft. Not a single display had armed him with a whip or a cannonball. “Seriously, those lashes were burned into that victim. Since when does he wield a whip? And what kind of whip can do that?”

“One made from the spinal bones of human corpses,” Dean strained under his breath.

I blinked several times before I responded. “Excuse me?”

“Alright, here’s the deal,” Dean started. The Impala followed his command as it lumbered over the driveway into a diner’s parking lot. “We’re gonna eat dinner here. But we can’t talk about work. Once we’re in there, we’re FBI agents, and on-going investigations are off-limits. Got it?”

Better than nothing. “Once we get back to the motel?”

Dean pulled into a spot and slid the shifter into park. “We’ll tell you everything.”

Everything. So foreboding. As if all of their skeletons had been buried in an urban legend. Both of them turned over the backrest when I remained quiet too long. Weighed and measured, their expectant glares demanded an answer.

So I agreed.

“Deal.”

“I haven’t had a pot roast sandwich like that in ages.”

Dean covered his mouth with his fist as he held back a deep belch. “The pecan pie was damn near the best I’ve ever had.”

“And that hot cider!” I added. “That was definitely homemade.”

“Uh, you’re damn right it was homemade. Everything there was homemade,” Dean replied. “Well, except for maybe Sam’s salad.” He turned to Sam and his face fell. “Sammy?”

I followed Dean’s concerned glare and found Sam near the motel room door, eyes glazed over and staring into the middle distance. I knew that look. I’d felt it before, and I’d seen it on both of them too many times over the years. The severity of the situation sank in then, and reality returned in a rush. Forgotten was the pot roast, the pecan pie, and the hot cider. Abandoned was the lighthearted banter, and our carefree dinner.

Death stalked us in the shadows, no longer a friendly face.

“I think we should sit down,” Sam suggested as he crossed the room. When he slumped onto the bed, he said, “This story gets dark in a hurry.”

I shed my suit jacket and boots at the small table under the singular hanging lamp. “I get the feeling something pretty awful happened,” I said as I crossed the room and sat beside him.

Dean withdrew a bottle of scotch from his duffel bag. “Normally I’d save this for after we waste this asshole, but,” he paused as he popped the cork free of the bottle. “I have some doubts that’ll ever come to pass.” He pulled three short plastic cups from his bag then and poured two-finger pours into each. He handed a cup to Sam, who passed it on to me, and handed another to Sam before seating himself at the table with the third. A sip and a hum preceded his thoughts. “You got that picture handy, Y/N?”

I dug through my backpack at my feet and withdrew the article. “Right here. I saw The Headle—”

“Yeah,” Dean interjected. “He’s back there, in the field. Anything else jump out at you?”

Confused, my brow knotted as I focused on the article once more. “I mean, there’s this family standing in front of what is clearly the Sleepy Hollow museum. I recognized the building when we got into town,” I said. Another yawn reminded me I had not slept more than a couple of hours over the last twenty-four. "But I don't see anything else. No aberrations, no distortion, no orbs… other than Tits McGee up in the field there, I got nothing."

Sam pointed to the father. "Look a little closer here. You might recognize someone."

Recognize? The picture was thirty years old. Hell, I'd have been a kid back then. Probably just shy of seven years old.

Seven.

My focus snapped to the caption.

Thomas (7).

Something instinctual snapped my attention to Sam, and I saw it then. My jaw dropped as recognition crept along my spine. Boyish charm had grown ruggedly handsome, but the fear behind his wide stare had remained the same. I returned to the photograph, focusing on the older brother, and the truth settled in the pit of my stomach. A suave sense of confidence radiated from John (11). And he was the spitting image of his father, Richard Phillips (36).

He still is.

The image blurred as tears burned my eyes. I looked up to find Dean glassy-eyed and well into his cup. The start of so many thoughts stuttered on my clumsy tongue. How had I missed it back at the Bunker? Of course John Winchester would give an alias to a reporter. When I returned to the photograph one last time, I stared at their father, and the tears rolled down my cheeks.

"Every few months, John grew out his beard," Dean started. "He had this laser-like focus on hunting down the thing that killed Mary, and a time or two every year, he'd get a wild hair up his ass so bad, he'd forget to shave."

"That year," Sam said as he pointed to the photograph, "the wild hair was Sleepy Hollow. He was convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that we would learn something important here."

Dean finished his pour of scotch and refreshed his glass. "He found nothing except for a bunch of busted pumpkins and a vengeful spirit."

I wiped at my eyes with the cuff of my shirtsleeve. When I turned to Sam, I asked, "How did he exorcise it?"

He shifted closer on the bed as he looked at the photograph. "We don't know. I was too young yet."

Dean grunted as he sat up in his seat and stood, caught his balance, then shuffled across the room to sit on the opposite bed. "Dad had just started filling me in on what he was doing about a year before we came here. But he did his best to ease me into it. Sam had hardly a clue until that day," he said as he pointed at the photograph.

"What happened?" I asked as I turned back to Sam.

A deep breath allowed him space to stall, but that same fear in his eyes returned. "I saw something." His stare glazed as it drifted off into the middle distance once more. "Bodies. Headless bodies," he stuttered. "A headless rider on a dark horse." He continued through a stream of consciousness, as though he were somewhere else. Sometime else. "Cannonballs and a whip of human spinal bones engulfed in flames."

My heart railed against my ribs as if to escape. Numb with dread, my fingers and toes burned, and fresh tears blurred my vision. "You were so young. That must have been terrifying."

He nodded and sipped from his drink. "At the time, yeah. I had nightmares for months. Over the years, I must have forgotten about it or blocked it out. But then you found this case. However you ended up with that article, it was no coincidence."

I looked to Dean then, and he clarified. "Something wanted us to come back. I think. To actually finish the job Dad didn't."

Something about that statement sparked a thought I had not yet considered. "How do you know this isn't something leftover from Chuck?"

A thoughtful look twisted his face. "We took care of Chuck and his mess. It's definitely a hunch but, I'd wager this isn't related. No, I think Dad just got this one wrong. He thought he did the job and we skipped town. But he screwed up and now The Headless Hessian is back again."

Hessian.

"What did you just call him?" I asked.

Dean regarded Sam, and they shared an equally confused look. "The Headless Hessian."

"I thought Hessians were German soldiers that fought for the Brits in the Revolution," I said.

When Sam nodded in agreement, he said, "You would be correct. And that was the original story until more retellings of the urban legend were printed."

Retellings. Talk about wild hairs. I dove for my backpack then and tore out my tablet. As it booted, I said, "I tried doing some research on The Headless Horseman on our way out here, but all I found was bullshit about the urban legend. Pumpkins and horses and heads and Ichabod Crane and crap like that. Nothing about cannonballs and whips made out of human spinal columns."

Sam propped one leg up on the bed as he turned to face me. "Regardless of what I saw as a kid, that story sounds familiar, too. I know the Hessian angle but I know I've also heard a version with a whip and a cannonball."

"Those," I started, then paused to type furiously, "I never knew. I always thought the myth was Ichabod Crane. But yesterday when I was searching for information, I think I found a website that mentioned a Hessian soldier as a part of the myth." Once I had found what I searched for, I turned the tablet to face them. "I thought it was a mistake. I know way too much about American history and its bullshit colonialism, so I wrote it off as a discrepancy. But when Dean referred to him as the Headless Hessian, it clicked."

The image on the tablet flipped through several iterations of a headless rider. The first carried a jack-o-lantern high over his head, then a headless horse with a headless rider appeared on the screen. Next, a rider carrying his own head, followed by a headless rider brandishing a sword. Then another hefting a muzzleloader, and finally a headless rider wielding a vicious whip made out of bone.

"Wait, which legend is that one?" Sam asked as he pointed.

The image of a man carrying his head under his arm while astride a horse froze on the page. "According to the website, that appears to be the dulachan. Irish folklore. The whip is a part of that legend, too."

"But our guy doesn't have his dome on him at all," Dean clarified.

"Exactly," I said, "Which was why I basically wrote this website off. Came to the same conclusion."

Sam pointed to the screen as the image changed to a giant man astride his horse brandishing his own head high above his shoulders. "That's the Gawain myth. Gawain beheaded the Green Knight."

Excitement flooded my senses as I exclaimed, "Yes! The Green Knight returns to challenge Gawain to a duel every year." The image changed again to that of a headless rider and horse. "And that's the Scottish story of the would-be chieftain, Ewen, who was decapitated at the battle at Glen Cainnir."

"And the headless man on a carriage?" Dean asked as the image changed once more.

"The Coiste Bodhar. Sometimes referred to as the gan ceann," I explained. “Damn, this website has everything…”

"But what does it all mean?" Sam asked.

I opened my mouth to reply but found I had nothing to say. A sudden silence filled the tiny motel room, all the wind sucked from our sails. It had to mean something. So many stories with their variations. Then again, they all shared a singular consistency.

“Maybe they’re all correct,” Dean mumbled.

Confusion scattered my rambling thoughts, and my focus snapped to Dean. “What are you saying?”

“Every story has the same headless dude in it, right?” he asked, echoing my idea. “Even the Hessian myth isn’t the original story. Irish, Scottish, English. They all have their own versions that are way older than the American story.”

“But a lot of Americans are the Irish, Scots, and English,” Sam added.

“Son of a bitch, we are English. I bet our forefathers fought in the Revolution,” Dean concluded and Sam agreed with a confident nod.

With the pattern weaving before my mind’s eye, I found a thread, a singular frayed end, and tugged on it. “So it’s not surprising at all that the stories are so similar. Immigrants made up the Headless Hessian based on their own urban legends from the motherland.”

“Exactly!” Dean declared.

Elation filled me for a brief moment before Sam ruined it again. “But then what is it?! A fae? A spirit? A curse? It could be anything with that theory!”

“You’re a real party pooper, you know that?” I said as I flopped back on the bed. “We were so close to something, I know it!”

Dean stood in a rush, then quickly returned to the bed. “Okay, that’s enough of the hooch,” he said as he crushed his empty cup and tossed it into the bin. “Let’s pick something and go after it. We’re never going to figure out what it actually is in a reasonable amount of time.”

“That’s a terrible plan!” Sam barked. “We’ll waste more time just trying random shit.”

Both of them fell quiet at that. My brain, on the other hand, was anything but. We had everything to handle a fairy, a vengeful spirit, even a curse. But how? How could we blindly choose? I agreed with Dean; we needed to do something and fast. And yet, Sam had a very valid point. I gritted my teeth against the frustration that supplanted my hope. What kind of spirit manifested once a year to kill a bunch of people? How, if all the stories are true, could we put down a fae-curse-spirit?

Then it dawned on me.

I bolted upright on the bed and blurted, “It’s all three.”

“What?”

Between Sam and Dean’s incredulous faces, I forced myself to grasp the last shred of confidence before it fled. “It’s all three. A spirit cursed by the fae.”

They regarded one another again, then turned away, silently considering my theory. Even I struggled to believe it. But then Dean snapped his fingers and said, “If it’s ultimately just a cursed spirit, all we need to do is roast his bones.” He pointed at the tablet as he jumped to his feet, steady as a rock. “The Headless Hessian was buried in an unmarked grave of the Old Dutch Church!”

I turned to Sam then, tense as a drawn bowstring. When his crooked, knowing grin spread across his lips, my stomach jumped into my throat. I hadn’t seen that smile in what felt like a century. And when he spoke, my heart nearly burst with relief.

“Looks like we’re doing some digging tonight.”

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THE MIDNIGHT RIDE MASTER LIST

ALLEIRADAYNE’S SPN MASTER LIST

[inthedarkofficial]

Stats at 25

I did this at 18 and at 21 because they felt like milestones, and... well, so does 25, I guess. It's going under this time though, because you know what that is? Growth.

Novels Written: In the Dark (no, really, it's done this time!), Dragons, In the Flames (which was meant to be In the Know), and I'm about 31,000 words into the real In the Know

Poems written: 40+

Agent Rejections: 21 this year alone (and I at about 30 total? Fuck)

Agent Requests: On their way, of course

Works planned: 15 novels, 4 short story collections, 1 encyclopaedia. 1 poetry collection, 1 short play, 1 nonfiction essay.

Publishing credits: 1 that we talk about (FourxFour baby!)

Characters: where do they keep coming from?

Lives lived: Why did I phrase this in the past tense? It's still happening

Life path: One step at a time, but an author, always

Books Read: Not as many as I'd like

Books to Read: A lot more than I'd like

Concerts seen: 27

Grades in piano: 3 (why do I keep including this?)

Memories: Treasured and painful and apparently something I have to fight for

Time: Lost all meaning this last year

Nickname: Still going by Padfoot, call me Roro and I will cut you

Clothes: So! Many! Clothes! but they make me feel better than ever

Style: It changes every day because I change every day

Friendships: How did I make new, incredible friends during a lockdown? I don't know, but gods bless D&D

Parents: We survived together in one house locked down for over a year, I'm so grateful for them

Family: I miss you Kali. I miss you nan. I want to hug you, Maddison. I want to give all of you a hug, honestly.

Enemies: I'm still coming for you, Derek

Sexuality: I keep looking closer and closer to see what the ins and outs are, but I'm bi and queer and that's enough

Gender: I fucking came out as genderqueer and I've started playing with pronouns and gender presentation and honestly? Never felt better

Hair colours: Literally could not tell you anymore. How many? Who knows. I want another.

Education: A in 11+, 2 A* and 8 A GCSEs, 1 A* and 2 A A Levels, 2.1 English Literature Degree, and I will finish this fucking proofreading course! Also, that masters degree is really calling me like a siren...

Tattoos: 2, and as soon as Covid allows it, I'll be getting more

Continents : 3

Countries: 10

Cities: I clearly counted this wrong and now? no clue

Homes: About to be 9!

Places to visit: I just want to go and see (and meet!) my friends, honestly

Vaginismus: Diagnosed! Fucking diagnosed!

Dilators: size 2!

Relationship status: Not going to be fucking decided by what some fucking Western doctor thinks I should be using my vagina for holy gods.

Standards: I want to be loved right down to my scalp. I enjoy my own company too much to settle for less.

Tears shed: My eyes hurt

Laughter: My ribs hurt

Jobs: 5, +writer, always. Fingers crossed for some sweet, sweet income soon though.

Readings: More! Let me do more! Covid, you bitch!

D&D campaigns: 1 abandoned, 1 shelved, 2 ongoing, 1 beginning soon

D&D Podcasts: R.I.P. Edge of Night

D&D characters: Where are all you stupid bisexuals coming from? (Not you, Caleb, we're thrilled to have you here)

Clean: Been a daily struggle this year. Not quite succeeding sometimes. But never fully relapsed. I can be proud of that.

Mental health: Ups and downs, but I'm taking back control

Physical health: Ready to fight doctors, but I'm getting there

Height: 5′2″, do I really need to keep recording this?

Shoes size: 3 (uk), I totally need to keep recording this

Weight: Most days I like my body, and that's a big improvement

Puns: cannot count how many times I got kicked out of skype calls this year

Beliefs: Maybe it's better to have ideas, but I've found names to give power to, powers to give love to, I have principles I live by, the faeries in the garden still get offerings, hawthorn trees carpet the garden in flowers, and I am enough. The worls is on fire, and full of people doing harm for no reason, so it's hard to believe that the world is good, but my life, at its core, is a good life. And I'm so grateful, even when things are hard.

Happy memories: even in the darkest and hardest of times, I have had moments of pride, and moments I felt loved. I know what unconditional love is. What could be better

Sad memories: Reclaimed, remembered, and not going to fucking control me.

How the things I planned to do at 21 panned out: actually learned what it takes to find an agent and though it took longer than I planned, I am now doing that process. Gave up krav maga, no regrets. Did finish my third novel (at least, first draft), then learned it was the wrong novel. But I did write a whole other novel. Graduated UEA with a 2.1. Successfully left Norwich and never have to fucking return! Have done freelance editing work and got a job at Debenhams, though Covid fucked those a bit. Wrote that fucking dissertation and it's fabulous. Did see Hamilton. Did put more hats on Cicero before he broke (but he's now getting repaired!) Decided a TEFL was an insane idea, I hate teaching. Did, indeed, continue to live and did a whole lot else.

Goals at 25: Keep submitting to agents, finish In the Know and work on the faery books, continue my physical and mental health journey, keep working with the dilators, move into my own house (!), find a steady source of income, start getting my poetry and other writing out there, finish my vaginismus article, visit my friends, get a new tattoo, keep volunteering at Pride, play enough D&D to justify all these fucking dice sets, get Cicero back, keep building the life I want.

Life at 25 years: when I wrote my "Stats at 21" post, I didn't know how much denial I was in. I'd totally repressed the memory of being sexually assaulted and I didn't even know about a condition that I've just learned has likely been impacting me in multiple ways all my life. I hadn't even met a person who would become one of my best friends, and then my boyfriend, and then my ex, and then totally out of my life by the time I write this. I barely knew the guy who is now one of the most important people in the world to me. I was only beginning to question my gender. I'd not questioned my sexuality in years. I've been through counselling, learned to stand up for myself, worked on so many projects I couldn't even imagine being a part of back then, been on a huge vaginismus journey that's still on going, started playing D&D, went to the graduation ceremony I never planned to attend, and I'm about to have my own house, just to point to a select few things. There's been a global pandemic (still ongoing), movements and trials that helped me find my truth and broke my heart, Brexit fucking happened, I lost my best, dearest and oldest friend (I love you Kali) and my nan... I could not have imagined what 25 would look like on the night I turned 21, just like at 18, 21 was impossible to picture.

So I guess... hi future Rowan. Happy 27th birthday (of course it's going to be 27). What does your world look like now? Did we fall in love? Did we make good dilator progress? How's the house? Did we decide on kids? I cannot begin to wonder what your world looks like, but I swear, I'm working on making it good.

"Soft and slow/Watch the minutes go/Count outloud/ So we know you don't keep them for yourself." - Halsey

[the-magnus-backlogs]

Statement of Suzanna Harkness regarding a manuscript she reviewed for publishing.

Statement taken direct from subject, 27th December 1993.

You wind up stumbling down a lot of weird rabbit holes when you work for a small press long enough. Niche genres you’d really rather remain oblivious to, arts majors trying to break the mould by submitting something they swear up and down you’ll have ‘never seen before’. Never mind if it’s actually legible, but that’s…that’s another matter, I guess. I’m not here to talk about the subpar sci-fi erotica or whatever, I’m here because I found something weird.

I’d like to say right off the bat that I’ve got a strong stomach. Wouldn’t have lasted this long in the company if I didn’t. We only publish a couple hundred books a year, but we take in all sorts around here. Sometimes it feels like our only real submission requirements are ‘unmarketable to the general public’, and it seems like anybody with a half-baked idea is willing to try their luck at tossing their unedited manuscript into the ring.

That’s where I come in. Wading through the mountains of unusable garbage, hunting for hidden gems. I’ve even found a couple, but mostly it’s just about finding something readable. Or something we can pass off as being readable for those rare readers capable of ‘comprehending the author’s artistic vision’. Yeah, the marketing team winds up throwing phrases like that around a lot.

Maybe I’m being unfair. I was a lot more patient about that sort of thing when I started. So preoccupied with not coming across as judgemental, but I’ve worked in publishing over ten years now.

It used to be more common for us to get manuscripts sent in through the post, back then. Nowadays it’s pretty much all done online. A couple we get from literary agents, but most are just emailed in by aspiring writers who stumbled across our site, usually after receiving their rejection letters from the two dozen publishing houses that show up above us on pretty much any search engine.

Every once in a blue moon, though, a manilla envelope will find its way onto my desk. Some bright spark who thinks they’re above using a laptop decides to send their manuscript in the old fashioned way. Sometimes it’s just a precaution in case we somehow miss the half dozen emails they’ve already sent out to every listed staff member on the site. Hell, sometimes it’s written by typewriter.

You know typewriters require special paper to print? Special ink, too. They probably spend more writing the damn thing than they’ll ever see in royalties, but to each their own, I guess. I even got one handwritten, once. The idiot sent a follow-up a month later anxiously asking if he could have it back if we weren’t going to consider it because it was his only copy. Can you imagine? Mailing off the only copy of your handwritten manuscript to some backroom small press without any insurance.

By comparison, this manuscript was relatively normal. It had been typed, I think. The paper was…I guess it was sort of crumpled, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. The postal service isn’t always the most careful about this sort of thing, and it wasn’t really packaged properly. Just shoved loose in a box and shipped out.

It was pre-bound. Just a bundle of papers held together with a few strands of red string. A little unusual, but not exactly throwing up any red flags. Even when I started reading it, I didn’t know. How the hell could I have?

It was good, though. Maybe that should have been my first clue. The prose dragged on a bit, but hey. There are plenty of successful writers out there who probably could have benefited from a harsher editor. They made up for it, in my opinion. Even just skimming those first few pages, I was hooked. Didn’t even really realise it when I was due my lunch break. I was so focused on that damn book.

The visuals were the thing. Plenty of writers can pour out half decent prose, but something about this writer…they had a way of making it feel real, you know? All the little touches, the scenes they crafted from the ground up. It felt…it felt like I couldn’t stop reading. Even if I’d wanted to, and trust me, back then I didn’t.

I didn’t leave my office that day. Barely noticed it when the phone rang, ignored all my emails. I really, really thought we’d accidentally stumbled on a gold mind. Not just a passable debut novel, but an honest to god genuine talent.

The funny thing is, I can’t even really remember what it was that drew me in. Couldn’t tell you what genre it fell under. The plot itself was practically non-existent. A girl who dreamed of being a dancer and crept out of her house to practice under the moonlight in a clearing in the forest behind her house.

Then, one blissful night, illuminated by the full moon, the forest provided her with a partner. The partner.

Nothing too out there, right? Your basic fantasy-romance type stuff. Pretty tame compared to a lot of what we publish, but I was enthralled from the first description of their first dance. Barefoot and so light on her feet her toes barely skimmed the dew-slick grass. They loved each other, and in that moment, I think I understood that. Really knew what it was to love someone so much you’d offer them your still beating heart if it would mean holding onto them for just a second longer.

Except it wasn’t love. Not really. It was an obsession.

I couldn’t stop devouring page after page as their budding romance grew and spiralled, twisting into something unrecognisable. Those whispered words of I can’t live without you became their mantra as they clung to one another so tightly they left bruises on one another’s skin. Soft kisses turned sharp as they came to understand what it was to need to consume and be consumed. They needed one another in a way neither could truly provide. Not really.

In their despair, they begged the forest to offer them a solution, and it gave them one. A way to lie in the sweet summer meadow forever, and in their glee they didn’t think to ask what it would cost.

Not until they began to rot, anyway.

My memories around here get a little hazy, or maybe the words were just less clear. The writing seemed…hurried towards the end, but the couple didn’t seem to mind much when the insects began to burrow through their skin and make their homes inside. They had so much love to give, literally brimming with it. As sickening as it was, it sounded almost…fond. Like the writer truly wanted to give them the happy ending they deserved, but somehow couldn’t think of anything more befitting than allowing their decaying corpses to be infested with creepy crawlies.

It was sick. The concept was sick. Everything about it was sick, but even now I can’t truly convey how vividly they described it. The picture they painted was so clear. Even the affection the insects lavished upon them as they crawled and burrowed through their decaying flesh. It was…God, it used to make me sick just thinking about it, you know that?

Because it wasn’t enough that I had to read it. That I physically couldn’t tear my eyes away. I had to see it. The idea of it…It got its hooks in deep.

By the time I got to the end, I was at a loss for what to do with the manuscript. On the one hand it was probably one of the best written pieces we’d ever received, and there are plenty of twisted readers out there looking for something to churn their stomach.

Somehow it didn’t feel right to publish it, though. I’ve read body horror before, but this…It wasn’t right. I couldn’t…I couldn’t just inflict that on people. How do you make someone understand, truly understand, when they’re signing up to read something that won’t ever let them go? How do you make them understand that the words they’re paying you to read will imprint themselves against the backs of their eyelids? That they’ll grow and spread and fester.

I dream about that dancer in the moonlit meadow. The descriptions of her actual appearance were relatively scarce, but I can still see her face when I close my eyes. I see her intertwined with her dance partner, caked in a mossy fungus that failed to disguise the living hive crawling beneath their skin. I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, anymore. Not even sure if I could tell them apart looking at them, what with their withered skin being so covered in filth and grime.

That damned book made it sound like something beautiful, but their beauty decayed with their childish notions of romance. They chose to become hollow husks of themselves to make room for the love they could no longer contain, but that’s…that’s not love. It can’t be…right?

So why can’t I stop thinking about the way their fingers intertwined before rigor mortis set in and cemented their bond forever?

I can’t concentrate on anything else anymore. At first it was just a niggling seed of doubt at the back of my mind, but it’s grown so much since then. That image burrowed so deep inside my mind turned its hungry mouth towards the parts of me which were most vulnerable, eating and eating and eating and eating until I could think of nothing else.

I don’t know why I never thought to burn it. Maybe I was worried it would make it worse. Maybe it felt too much like sacrilege. I never read it again after that first time, though I considered it often. It sat on my desk while my other assignments lay scattered around it, disregarded without a second thought. After all, there was no room left in my mind for anything else anymore. Every other passage I tried to read just seemed so…dry. So false. I used to get so invested in the lives of paper people, but now I know what true love is, how could the half-baked notions of romance ever compare?  I tried at first, but by the end I just…stared at it. Waiting.

Maybe if I’d tried to destroy it…Too late now, I suppose. I never let it see the printing presses, but I did let it go in the end. Some old man came in asking for it specifically. Something about it being a collectable.

I don’t know how an unpublished manuscript could be considered a collector’s item, and frankly I didn’t ask. I’m not sure if I even really cared about what he’d do with it by that point. Did it bother me that I might be condemning him to share my fate? It doesn’t now, I know that much.

It’s…I was hoping this might help me clear things up, but I just couldn’t see any of it straight. I can’t see anything, anymore. Not really. It may have started in my dreams, but once I let her in…They’re everywhere, now. I saw him in the faces of my colleagues before the press finally let me go… I don’t remember how long ago now. I think the power company cut the power at some point. It doesn’t matter now.

The funny thing is, I really thought they cared about me. They did, at first. I think. It all sort of blurs together, but I remember how they used to talk about me when they thought I couldn’t hear. The nervous looks they’d send me when I zoned out at my desks. Then they staged their first intervention, and I saw it. I saw her. It was the man I saw painted across the features of everyone I knew, in the arches of eyebrows and slants of cheekbones, but it was her I saw reflected in their eyes.

It was her I saw in the mirror, before they ran out of space inside my skull, and the maggots took my eyes…or maybe I imagined that part too.

I’m pretty sure it’s too late for me now, but when I heard about you guys I figured it was worth a shot. I’m full of it. Whatever that feverish contagion that claimed the couple was. That sickly, rotting thing they mistook for love. I can feel it now. I can understand it now and it’s so much. Already I’m on the brink of bursting with it, I think.

I just can’t wait to share.

[miss-pearlescent]

LIFE UPDATE (lol)

Hello, this is going to be a long-winded life update because I simply want to just talk about things that have been going on and why I don’t update on a consistent basis :)

One of the reasons is above! Last week (two weeks ago??) I covered Naughty with a friend! Please check it out :D Honestly, this didn’t take away from my writing at all because I do random covers all the time, but I just want the views lmao HUMOUR ME! (I’m the one in white). Oh, and please don’t comment anything about my writing/fanfiction/tumblr on that video! I keep this blog pretty private.

Anyway, what did take away from my writing is A WRITING COURSE! Can you believe :) the :) irony :) I signed up for this writing course because I’ve always really wanted to publish a book aka basically give birth. As a teenager, I followed a few YA authors like they were gods, and when I attended signings, I was starstruck! I’d be like, “Girl, your mind!” So there I was, looking up how to publish a goddamn book and realizing that there were so many things to it other than just writing. It was discouraging to say the least! Then two years ago, I mentioned my hobby to my therapist and she suggested taking a writing course.

She (bless her heart) even searched up local colleges for me and opened my eyes to the fact that educational institutions held entire courses dedicated to romance writing. Wow. Of course, I rejected her idea because of the kind of person I am.

I’m kidding.

I’m not.

LOL ok so I was like “I don’t want to take a writing course because I don’t want people to judge my writing and tell me to write romance a certain way or else it doesn’t feel organic. And what if I lose my interest in it? Then what will I do with my free time? And what if people find my shit really fucking weird? etc”

I put the idea off for a year and finally came back to it last year when I found myself taking frequent trips to the library to write for a whole day. I would buy a Booster Juice, some sushi or Subway, and then I would park my ass on a plastic library chair for 5-8hrs straight. Come Fall/Winter, with the knowledge that I had some basic self-discipline (lmao), I looked into writing courses. I decided to take an online romance writing course that would start February 2020.

Guess when my country began seeing COVID cases? February 2020. Oh boy!

So my lifestyle changed, my work changed, and then I have school work?!?! My dumb ass hasn’t touched anything school related in three years. I was like “you know what? I’m going to try! I’m going to want to learn, and I’m going to put in effort.” Holy shit!!!!! I’ve learned that school still stresses me out lol it doesn’t matter that my grades literally don’t matter in this course. I’m still stressed.

That’s not to say I didn’t like this course. I really enjoyed it because I actually did learn a lot. My instructor (professor???) was also really...ELOQUENT LMAO Her lecture notes would spill mad tea but in the most polite way possible. I have yet to see any of my marks or read any of her comments (due to my fragile ego) but I am excited to do so.

One example of her brilliance in getting her message across is this little section about active vs passive verbs. We’ve all done this lesson hundreds of times in high school, but OMG the line that she uses at the end really solidifies the difference! After reading that, I decided not to skip any of the other readings lmao home girl had my respect.

OK ANYWAY! Back to me stressing! I was very stressed with every assignment. It was nice to be challenged to write differently (creating better mood, fleshing out characters more) because the end products were all...”nice”. But that shit took so much energy that I couldn’t write anymore! I couldn’t think of new plots that I was interested in :( It also didn’t help that I was going through other personal issues, and my libido was nonexistent. As a result, I have so many intros to stories because I’ve had to force myself to think of something for this course, but I never was truly interested in them to actually write it all out from start to finish. Not to mention, I have not written a sex scene since February lol

Then came the final assignment that I just submitted two days ago. OMG. It was a straight up publisher’s package. You had to have a 20pg manuscript. You had to write a query letter/cover letter. You had to research which publisher you would submit to. IT WAS SO SCARY.

I was going to write a whole new story for this manuscript but after writing 4k words, literally nothing was happening in the story and I was so bored. So I scrapped it all and took one of my most recent stories (Universal Differences, but in third person lmfaooo) and tried to tweak it. It was soooo difficult!!! Of course, I also procrastinated this whole thing because procrastination is one of my character traits. On the last three days, I pulled 8-10hrs non-stop everyday to finish it (unrelated, but I watched the SuperM 100 MV after one of these days, and I had to close my laptop immediately after the video because I felt like the MV was attacking me to stay awake LOL). There were so many times where I legit hated myself and my writing and nearly cried because I would think back on all the love that you guys gave to that story and then I’d be like “THE STORY (and, in turn, me as a person) IS SO UNDESERVING OF ANY LOVE AT ALL.”

See, this is why I went to a therapist a few years back loooool I had to rewire my brain to dissociate my writing from myself. I had to keep reminding myself that even if my prof didn’t like it, I would still get good feedback at the end of the day and none of that feedback would reflect me as a person. That even if she told me that I was never going to be able to ever publish anything, there are many writers who were told the same thing and came out of it alive and prosperous because they continued to work hard. I have a whole ass template now of what to send to a publisher/agent. If I wanted to, I would have the skill base to take a story and know where to direct it for publication.

And I would have the confidence to do that!!! Because I’ve already done it once!!!

Something cute my prof said when one of the students said they were overwhelmed:

[ I think it can help if you just think of it as the business processes of that industry - and not you laying your heart and soul out in front of some stranger to judge. :)]

;____________;

OK that is all for now, I think! Since I have submitted my final assignment, my imagination has come free of its reigns so I hope to get more stories out to you guys! Thank you for the requests too! The wilder they are, they more they get my brain going hehehehehehehhehe have a good week everyone~

[theletterunread]

May Day, May Day, May Day

Last May, the world continued to fall apart, as it's been doing for many years – though at a noticeably accelerated pace. The coronavirus dictated everyone's life and kept me mostly in my apartment in Franklin Village, living a life that was just like my normal life, only moreso. I played video games (but for more hours at a time), watched movies (but more than usual), and read books (but longer books, like Ulysses and the last Karl Ove Knausgaard novel, that were too heavy to have carried around and read while commuting). I did a lot of new writing and got a few rejections for some old writing. Just as I had seven years earlier, I began to wish I had a piano – as my apartment’s previous tenant, singer-songwriter Rebecca Black, did – so I could pass my downtime creating something nice.

The May before that, my writing partner and I submitted writing samples through the WGA Staffing System in the hopes of being hired to write for a sitcom. This job board had been set up by the Writer’s Guild to help writers find work without the assistance of their agents, whom the WGA had instructed its members to fire following a dispute with the Association of Talent Agents. My writing partner and I were skeptical that anybody (least of all us) would be hired through this system – we figured staffing decisions would still be determined by Hollywood’s impenetrable cliquishness – but we knew there was nothing to be lost by giving it a try.

On a Thursday, we submitted applications to three shows. Two of them were cancelled by Saturday – almost as if our applications reminded the producers that they still had dead shows to clear out – and we never heard back from the third.

The May before that, a paralegal left the law firm I work at in Downtown LA because he’d found a job closer to his home in Long Beach. My boss took him out to lunch, after which he returned to the office to say his goodbyes. He thanked me for teaching him some filing skills, but I had trouble accepting the gratitude. Even after six years, I still felt like a pretender in the legal world, skeptical that I knew anything teachable.

Later that afternoon, my boss informed the rest of us that, at lunch, the paralegal had asked him, “Do you wanna smoke some weed?” My boss had declined, noting that it was noon on a Wednesday. Our receptionist said that he had recently made the same offer to her. But an associate attorney and I had never been offered the same opportunity even once in the six months we worked with him.

The May before that, my pianist friend passed through LA and we met for lunch in Westwood. He was the first peer whose hair I noticed was going grey. Mine had been turning for a few years already. Good for both of us.

When I returned home, I played The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild, an acclaimed game which shares a lot of its DNA with one predecessor in particular: The Wind Waker. I was happy to see that game’s achievements respected by this new installment in the series because I still felt the exact same protectiveness of and identification with The Wind Waker that I had 14 years earlier, no matter that I was getting old and grey.

The May before that, I received a rejection letter from a literary magazine for a short story that I had submitted for publication 14 months earlier. I also received a rejection from a literary agent for a novel I’d written. Neither one upset me too much: the short story because I’d completely forgotten it was out in the world; the novel because the agent sent me back thoughtful notes, and I was touched that anyone would even take the time to read 75,000 words I’d written. Plus, it was easy to brush off literary set-backs. I had just had made my first business trip to Hollywood, and I was confident I’d soon be working as a sitcom writer.

The May before that, I got a sharp pain in my back anytime I breathed in deeply. The internet said it was probably a strain in one of my intercostal muscles, but couldn’t rule out pneumonia or something scarier. Not wanting a repeat of seven years earlier, when I’d ignored ankle pain and wound up in surgery, I visited a doctor. She diagnosed it as a strained intercostal muscle and wrote me a prescription for anti-inflammatories, which I never picked up.

Three days later, my friends and I were sharing interesting quotations over email (Tuesdays we shared poetry, Wednesdays paintings, and Thursdays quotations). The last contribution was from H.P. Lovecraft: “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.”

The May before that, my roommates and I threw a party in our apartment. We invited 47 people and just about 47 people showed up. We had a great time until my landlord called me downstairs to show me that our front gate had been broken by one of our guests while departing. I esteemed my landlord so highly that there was little in life I hated more than disappointing him.

By the next morning, my roommates and I had determined who the culprit was, but we weren’t sure whether to ask him to pay up. While we weighed our options, I went to McCarren Park to attend a picnic hosted by a friend of mine from high school. I didn’t know any of the other guests, but I asked them whether, in my situation, they would reach out to the vandal and ask him to pay. They all said it was a tough call.

Ultimately, my roommates and I paid for the gate ourselves, swallowing the repair charge as the cost of hosting guests. As one of my roommates used to say when shrugging off his post-party hangovers, “You gotta pay the piper.”

The May before that, I wanted to resume playing the piano, so I made arrangements to buy an electric keyboard from a man who lived on the Upper East Side. I reached out to my only friend with a car – the same woman to whom I’d lost my virginity four years before – and asked if she would help me haul the equipment back to Bed-Stuy. She agreed on the condition that I would go with her to Rockaway Beach afterwards. Though the beach is my least favorite of all leisure destinations, I said sure and told her where to meet me.

She showed up to the Upper East Side without a car and without any understanding that I had expected her to bring a car. I had forgotten to ask for that, but it wouldn’t have made a difference: she hadn’t been vehicled for two years. I asked why she thought I would request her help with this chore, if not for her ability to bring a car. She asked why I hadn’t mentioned the car in my request, why I assumed she had one even though I had only seen her drive once, two years earlier, and where my gratitude was for her being willing to come out in 90-degree weather to help with such a tedious chore. Her rhetorical questions were better. We lugged the keyboard, its stand, its pedal, and a bunch of cords back to Brooklyn over two subway transfers and then went to the beach, where the temperature was about 40 degrees lower.

Even though the keyboard’s quality was affirmed by my (imminently greying) pianist friend when he came over for one of our parties, it didn’t scratch my itch the way a real piano would have. I kept it for three years until the speakers stopped working.

The May before that, I began working at a law firm in Midtown. I didn’t know how I landed the position, a phenomenon that’s repeated in every job I’ve got – or not got. Despite my supposed knowledge of film and TV, I’ve been turned down for writing jobs and even to work for Blockbuster. But I was hired to work at a venerable firm while knowing absolutely nothing about the law.

Between that respectable job and the largesse of my landlord, letting me live in Shangri-La for $600 per month, I spent my early-to-mid-twenties building unusual financial stability. I didn’t recognize it, though, and those were the years I was most worried about money. In the years before and since, financial anxiety was nothing; my worries were (are) about writing. And tidily, in that middle period, the creative side of life caused no concern.

The May before that, I graduated from NYU. More than any catastrophe I’ve lived through, that event created an atmosphere of the End of Days. Feelings of wistfulness and anxiety about casting off into the unknown were underscored by Collapse Into Now, the new R.E.M. album I was listening to repeatedly. It is a poignant record (though it wouldn’t be identified as such for another four months, it was secretly R.E.M.’s farewell album) but I was in an emotional state to be moved by any music. I couldn’t even join in the culture-wide mocking of Rebecca Black’s “Friday” that was going on; I found her earnestness unbearably touching.

At the end of the month, I moved into my new place in Bed-Stuy. My roommates and I had flipped for the apartment as soon as we saw it, not just because its competition wasn’t fierce – other prospective apartments had rat poison on the floor or 18-inch-high ceilings – but because it was spacious and cheap and distinctive, and because we liked the landlord. (And it went both ways: he told us that he had declined other possible tenants while waiting for our decision because, “I took a shine to you guys.”) And even though it was still a little strange to be sleeping and eating and showering in a new place, and even though a couple of teenagers had shouted at me while I was moving in – using what federal judges now call “racially charged language” – and even though I still had no idea how to shape a life outside of school, I felt better, because I was in My Home.

The May before that, I was finishing up a semester abroad in Ireland. At times during that spring, I compared myself to the freshman I’d been two and a half years earlier. I had been so naïve, so unworldly when I came to New York in 2007. Now, it was 2010 – a modern year, the dawn of a new decade – and I was 20 years old, living across the Atlantic. I had lived long enough to have a past, to have life behind me. I was a real person.

But if I ever had any specific examples of what made “Junior Year Me” more sophisticated than (or even different from) “Freshman Year Me,” I have completely forgotten them now. The two iterations are collapsed into one character in my mind. And when I see the numbers now, 20 as an age is much closer to the two decades before it than to the years that have come since, and 2010 looks like an absurdly miniscule year.

The May before that, I lost my virginity in a college dorm on 14th Street in Manhattan. It happened in the afternoon, after two failed attempts in prior evenings. The school year was winding down – when my girlfriend called to invite me over, I was packing up my dorm room, and when I arrived, her suitemate was in their common room, packing up her things – so there was no more room for error.

I recall looking at a digital clock, but I don’t recall what time it showed. Nor do I remember the weather, though I remember either being pleased that it was raining, or wishing that it were raining. For a redefining moment, it’s awfully hazy. The fog of war. I had to be reminded many, many years later that, after we finished, I offered a dirty joke that was extremely in and out of character: “I was packing boxes in my dorm, and then I came over here to pack boxes.”

Afterwards, I walked back to my dorm in the West Village. My friends and I had plans to watch a marathon of all of the videos we had filmed that year, and we did. It was several years before I told them where I had been earlier that day.

The May before that, I had an MRI on my ankle, which had been hurting for a year. After I left the hospital, I went to Blockbuster to interview for a summer job and absolutely bombed. I may have admitted that I only planned to keep the job until college resumed in September; I certainly volunteered that I knew nothing about high-traffic film genres like action or horror. When asked what movies I might recommend to customers, I offered artsy snoozers like Ed Wood.

Just as well that I was never offered a job, as the MRI showed that I had, “the ankle of a 70-year-old,” and arthroscopic surgery was scheduled. I spent the next two months first in a cast, then in a boot. I passed the summer making videos and uploading them to YouTube, thinking maybe I’d go viral, as I’d been hoping for two years. The most attention I got was from foot fetishists who liked when I showed my casted leg.

The May before that, my high school was shut down on what was supposed to have been my last real day of senior year. An AP Spanish Literature test and a band concert were scheduled for the day, after which I had no more obligations. But cafeteria workers coming in early in the morning spotted two masked men creeping through a hallway. The workers called the cops, the masked men fled, and the bomb squad was called in. School was closed for the day.

Had there been a bomb, this might be a disaster story known to lots of people of my generation. But there was no bomb, and it’s a story that even I forget most of the time. The general consensus was that the masked men were just students coming in early to set up some departing-senior stunt. They were never identified, though I was confident I knew who they were.

My test and my concert were rescheduled, so I had to keep going to school. The morning of the makeup AP exam, I told one of my classmates that I couldn’t help but wish we had been able to wrap up high school the week before, as anticipated. She cut me off and said, “You can’t even think about that.”

The May before that, YouTube penetrated mass consciousness. The notion of “going viral” was not known to us then, but it was still obvious how well the site could facilitate the spread of good work. I was certain that the videos my friends and I were making could be successful on there. We had so many funny ideas, it was inconceivable that not a single one of them would catch fire. Maybe not immediately, but it couldn’t take forever.

The May before that, Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith premiered. I disliked the previous movie, had forgotten the one before that, and was totally agnostic about the original trilogy, yet I convinced myself to be excited for this one: This is how a person interested in film should feel. My mom and I made plans to go as a treat after an afternoon laboring in the garden, and I invited a friend to come along.

My friend called back later in the day to ask if he could bring another kid from school to the movie. This other kid and I wound up growing closer in the last years of high school, but at the time, I still found him mean and unpredictable. I worried that he might laugh at me for still going to the movies with my mom, or worse, that he would act up in some distasteful way in front of her. My parents weren’t overly sensitive, but I was still haunted by a memory from a birthday party three years before: this kid seriously tasking my dad by telling an awful dirty joke. ("How do you circumcise a redneck?")

I lied to my friend and told him that the trip to the movies had been cancelled. Then I lied to my mom and told her that my friend had decided not to come. At the movie theater, I kept looking over my shoulder, worried that my friend might decide to come anyway (maybe even with the other kid), and I’d be caught. He didn’t, and the next day he asked if I still wanted to see the movie with him, so I watched Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith twice in two days.

The May before that, in Downtown LA (only a mile from the law firm where I’d be working 13 years later), Nintendo had a very successful presentation at the annual Electronic Entertainment Expo. At a time when its public reputation was shaky, Nintendo blew the roof off the Los Angeles Convention Center with a showcase of a new handheld, a new spokesman, and a new Legend of Zelda game. The previous entry, The Wind Waker, had drawn a lot of attention (mostly condemnation gradually giving way to praise) for its colorful, cel-shaded art style. This new game looked more subdued, realistic, and – in the parlance of the times – mature.

While I was excited by the new entry, I felt sad that it appeared to be such a blatant rejection of The Wind Waker, a game I had been defending against adolescent smears since before its release, a game I thought had proven itself to be a masterpiece. Yet here was Nintendo itself surrendering to the backlash and giving the haters exactly what they demanded. That wasn’t how the world was supposed to work, and I felt that I had been hung out to dry. These feelings were still with me more than a decade later when Breath of the Wild came along to close the circle.

The May before that, a blizzard hit Colorado. It was a spring snow, very wet and heavy, and it destroyed the plants that my mom had been adding to the yard since we moved in. She was in the house with my newborn brother, so my dad and I shoveled the walk. It was hard, slushy work, but I greatly preferred it to the lawn jobs and gardening I’d been doing over the preceding year. A private yard was supposedly one of the pleasures of living in a house rather than the apartments and condos we’d previously had, but it wasn’t worth the work that went into it. Visiting a public park or walking around the neighborhood was much more fun than sitting on your own boring lawn.

It wasn’t anything that would be relevant for eight years, and it wasn’t anything I was conscious of for longer than that, but I was developing a sense of what I dreamed would be My Home.

The May before that, my family was newly installed in our first house. Our old condo had been bought by a guy who ran an outdoor cinema over the summers, and he had given us three free passes. I went with two friends to see the second screening of the season, Airplane!

Before the show, one of my friends mentioned that he was going to be working that summer at his dad’s restaurant, and the other said he had been given a spot at his uncle’s factory (it made insulated water bottles). I felt left out, and wished that I could get work too. I wondered if there was a way I could leverage my knowing the man who ran the outdoor cinema into a job.

I remember that longing, yet I don’t remember how, two years later, I came to be working at the outdoor cinema. I have no record of who talked to whom and said what to get me that gig, the first of many positions I would get without knowing how. The job stayed on my resume until I went to work for the law firm in Midtown, but I’m not sure how useful it was. It wasn’t enough to get me in the fucking door at Blockbuster.

The May before that, R.E.M. released its 12th studio album, Reveal. I heard its lead single, “Imitation of Life,” while leaving the Albuquerque airport in a rented car, and was entranced. When we got back to Boulder, I asked my parents to buy a copy of the CD, beginning a fandom that hadn’t abated ten years later when I was listening to Collapse Into Now.

Four months after Reveal was released, the U.S was hit by the September 11th attacks, the first calamity of my life. I’ve never since looked at a copy of Reveal without thinking, “That was from the world before 9/11.” Directionless. And my ability to draw meaning from the eternal return has advanced no further.

[b0rtney]

Why I Do What I Do: 1. A Human Being with a Place of Birth

You can’t know where you’re going without knowing where you’re from, so today I’ll talk a little bit about where I’m from, and why I do what I do. This first part is about where I’m from as a human being.

I was born and raised in a nice little suburb of Missouri, about twenty minutes from downtown St. Louis. 

For kindergarten, I went to a nice Henry school and attended a nice Baptist church on Sundays, and maybe one other day of the week if I’m remembering that right. These were the kinds of places that would make any moderate person’s skin crawl. My older sister would scream and pout when my parents wrestled her into a church dress, but it would be a scandal if she tried wearing pants– that kind of place. My parents got divorced when I was six or seven, and that kind of thing had every person in that church turning their backs on my family, the fact that my mom soon began working to support me and my siblings was, I’m sure, the talk of the congregation for a little while– that kind of place. 

After my parents got divorced, I switched to another nice Henry school, and I moved to new houses: one for each parent. That nice Henry school didn’t work out for long. My mom couldn’t stand Henryity in almost any form anymore. And the tuition was too expensive for an electrician with a declining business and a brand-new real estate agent in 2007. So, public schools. My dad was zoned for a school with the best public schools around, so we used his address. Kehrs Mill Elementary was where I went starting in second grade, and where my brother went starting in Kindergarten. My sister started sixth grade at Crestview Middle. 

I went about half the year friendless in second grade, and then I met Fernanda. She was the only Hispanic girl in the whole school (there was one Philipino boy, two Chinese girls, an Indian girl, a Middle Eastern boy, and everyone else was African American or Caucasian). She, kind of literally, yanked me by the arm and dragged me into friendship, and I’d never been happier. We played Warrior cats (yes, based on the books, don’t look at me like that every school had some kids that did it… although I think the part where we lapped water out of the sink and hissed at her mom was a little weird). We made up a version of “Cowboys and Indians” where we would be two Chieftesses with inexplicable numbers of children and no husbands, facing moral dilemmas like what to do with prisoners of war when they won’t hear of peace– while our brothers (my one and her two) tried to shoot at us with Nerf guns. 

At this point, if you had asked me what I wanted to do with my life, I would have told you what I considered an impossible joke: I wanted to marry a woman, run an orphanage, adopt a bunch of teenagers and babies, and drive a van big enough to fit everyone in it when we went grocery shopping together. 

In third grade I took a long test in the school’s brand-new computer lab and I scored so well that they took me, once a week, on Wednesdays, to a different campus with other kids that scored really well on that test and we learned about lazers and climate change and cloning and other things for “gifted” kids. But otherwise, third grade passed in much the same way as second grade, but nothing exists without complications and so there came along a boy named Henry. He was new to school and he had what could have been called a cool haircut, for 2009, and Fernanda loved him. I didn’t. But she did, so I thought it was normal to like a boy, so I said I liked him too. And then he said he liked me better than her because she was weird and I kicked him in the shin and said something mean that I don’t remember anymore. But Fernanda didn’t like that, and she didn’t like me. So at the beginning of fourth grade she told me she wasn’t going to be my friend this year so that she could try being friends with someone else. 

So, I was alone again in fourth grade, for a minute. But by this time my real estate-mom had moved us to house number three (four, maybe?) since the divorce: a condo with blue carpets and mostly old people living there. This was where I met Branch, a kid from my class who visited his grandma in the condo directly above us. Branch and I each had a little brother, and by now my sister had taken to locking herself in her room and not talking to anyone, so Branch and me and our little brothers played “Hup-hups,” a war game where there were two sides, each with a commander and an infantryman who would respond to commands like “stay,” “go,” “attack,” and “attention.” It was pretty fun, so Branch told his friends at school about it, and they all wanted to join my faction, and this went on like a domino effect until I was running an army comprised of something like 30-50 fourth-grade boys, depending on the day, at recess. I don’t think I realized how weird that was at the time. We mostly just screwed around until another boy formed an oppositional army, calling themselves the Arachnids, because that was just about the biggest word you could know in fourth grade, and they started guerilla warfare. They would just straight-up attack us and try to hurt us. I would scream at the boys following me to run away, because I never wanted anyone to get hurt, but then the oppositional army leader had his arm around my throat and I was choking so I couldn’t yell very loud, and all the boys on my side just went to town attacking the Arachnids back. Somehow, none of the recess monitors– these were two grouchy old women who would always yell at me and Fernanda for trying to climb the trees– ever saw this, or stopped it. The violence continued until people got tired of it, and by the end of the year I was alone again.

Fifth grade was when the depression I’d had since I can remember really kicked it up a notch. It should be noted that I had no idea what depression was. I thought it was normal to just not want to get out of bed in the morning, to want to die all the time, to dig needles into your skin and try to make yourself bleed because at least then you have control over something. By then my mom had moved to house number five, within walking distance from the school, so my brother and I would walk together every morning. I made one new friend, named John, and he talked me out of suicide not once but twice, once by yelling at me over the phone and once by just existing, which is very impressive for a fifth grader, if I’m honest, but also I think I’ll always feel a little horrible for putting that pressure on him. I convinced myself that I loved him, at the time. 

You may be noticing a pattern with me and boys, but we’re not quite there yet. 

Of course, between fifth and sixth grade my family picked up and moved across the country from Missouri to Southern California.

I spent sixth grade and most of seventh grade friendless, and met a few friends in eighth grade– two of those friends are still with me to this day. In eighth grade I met a girl named Chloe, who had three pregnancy scares in a year and who convinced me to make out with her in a pillow fort in the room I shared with my sister while my sister was out with her boyfriend– and that was the first kiss I ever had and it felt like liquid lightning in my veins. But in eighth grade I also listened to my Republican parents on the matter of gay rights– of course, I barely knew what gay was, I just knew it was something you called people you didn’t like because that’s all that a Missouri elementary school teaches you about it– and so I thought gay people were a little gross, and I was a little gross for liking it when I kissed a girl, and I buried that part of me. In eighth grade I also met the boy who would be the first one I would date: Chris. I dated him from the middle of freshman year to the end of sophomore year in high school. We went on a few awkward dates, we held hands even though his were sweaty and we couldn’t get the timing right, we kissed even though it felt about as exciting as eating plain bread– not exactly bad, just not exciting or fun. 

Now the pattern might seem more clear. It certainly became very clear to me. 

I didn’t like boys. I like girls. I’ve liked girls since forever, and no amount of shame or repression was going to “fix” me because I. Wasn’t. Broken. I was depressed and I was anxiety-ridden and I was introverted maybe a little too much, but being homosexual was never an issue. 

I broke up with my boyfriend. I came out to my friends, then my siblings, then my parents, then everyone else. I had a girlfriend, and she lost interest, so I broke it off. I had another girlfriend, but I had never been interested, so I broke it off. Then I put dating aside. 

I continued to get straight As in school, take all the AP classes, run three clubs, rank nationally for field hockey goalies, help a friend of mine transition from straight girl to gay girl to nonbinary kid to straight boy, and accumulate a solid group of five friends. 

Then I got rejected from every college I applied to because of a clerical error I didn’t know about until a year later (after appeals were already a lost cause), so I got a job, I went to a community college, tried to go for a business degree and hated it, switched to a creative writing degree, and now here we are! With my applications submitted and one acceptance in the bag (thank you, University of Iowa!), now I want to focus on my writing and try to get published next.

Now that you know where I’m from, you know at least a little of what I care about. I deal a lot with mental health, so does my writing. My sexuality was a major unknown for me for a large portion of my life, so I include that a lot in the hopes that I can help someone else not be so lost with that. My hometown had very little racial diversity, so I want to represent more diversity in my writing. 

But I don’t want to get ahead of myself: in the coming posts, I’ll show you what I’ve written and read, so you can have a better idea of where I’m coming from as a writer, now that you know where I’m coming from as a person.