Thursday, June 30, 2011

I'm sorry what did you just call me?

Ok, so I'm a bit on the smaller side, this is a fact. Lets not to forget that I'm at the same time on the less healthy side of the spectrum in general having the muscle consistency of veal. Ok, so not everyone is built the same, awesome, I love some variety. Fine, I kind of hate everyone equally if you want to know the blatant truth! Not because I'm self righteous or that I think I'm Superior, or that my music choices are better than yours (they are trust me!), no it has to do with the fact that total strangers, friends, and even more strangers have a bizarre habit of calling me by the delightful moniker of, brace yourself, "Skinny Bitch". What the hell? Do I know you? Alright so I get the fact that you pointed out that I am on the spare side, but you also whapped me with Bitch. Where in the hell is that a complement? Back handed perhaps but still not a damn complement. If I was talking to someone and was rather taken by something they had/did/said I would not show my admiration by calling them a fat bitch to show our dissimilar places. First I would get me skinny bitchy ass kicked, second that crap is jacked up! Examples you ask for, well here you go:
Me: Well I kind of hate Sting.
Friend: Really, he's my favorite.
Stranger(thin, beautiful): Yeah I've never liked him either.
Friend (after stranger walked away looking at me) must be a skinny bitch thing.

Stranger at daughters school: I can't believe you have a kid, your so tiny.
Me: Oh, I have two, my sons a few months old.
Stranger: Oh, I fucking hate you, you skinny bitch.
(I'm still working out if this had any compliment in it, but she was smiling and talked to me everyday after so I guess it was supposed to be.)


Stranger: Hey where did you get that belt?
Me: Tillies
Stranger: Oh only skinny bitches and gay guys shop there! (way to offend two groups there lady!)

So what is my point here? No, not oh poor me I'm so thin you don't know my hardships, blah, sob! Thing is it turns into a form of reverse discrimination. You would never comment on someones weight if they were heavy because its offense. You would never ask them if they gorge themselves because that is evil so why on God's green Earth do you think it's fine to ask me if I like to throw up? It makes me cry actually, thank you kindly (the puking, not the question that just pisses me off). Look just because Oprah did a special about eating disorders doesn't mean 1. That I have one 2. That you have any damn right to ask or comment that I do!
Here's how I see it, you can dress it in as many fluffy compliments as you please, you still just called me a bitch.
This the bit of loveliness I listened to while writing this.

Friday, June 24, 2011

What's in a name?

It turns out there is a lot it seems. I don't mean the the complete annoyed knowledge of how a name defines you and what exactly that means since I from the bowels of my existence dislike my name. It isn't so much that I detest other Susans. I am fine with them as a whole, I hate myself as a Susan. It's like a shirt that never fits and the tag always feels scratchy. It is my proverbial hair shirt it seems, that aside I will get to my point. I have been working rather drolly on my second novel that I lazily saved as, well, novel. I write my heart out, drop a few music references, tuck in some biblical illusion, sneak in a proverb or two, and hit save. What happens? Nothing. Why do I walk away and feel unfulfilled. I just purged but the cleansing feels weak. Is my ability already waned?
I read over it, not bad, but something is missing. In my dreams, my deeper thoughts, I have moved on by my frustration, I have mentally composed my third novel, researched my fourth. I toy with shelving Novel, knowing it would be injurious to the parts of my third, already tucked delightfully in my mind. Plus the concept of quitting makes me queasy.
At a glance of my saved documents I can pick out easily my babies. My literary abstractions. I see Finding Faith, The Reality of Sleeping Beauty, The odd Couple smiling at me. Hugging my broken spirit. My wordy little cheerleaders! The I see one titled blandly book. What the hell was that? Another says chpt 2? Chapter 2 of what, of book maybe? I am clueless at these discarded bits of imagination. Did I ever love them? Did I dance before my fingers hit the keys, clearing my mind. Did I cleave to Ian Curtis while I wrote them? I always listen to something( even now), are these my bastard children since I can't even place their inspiration? mental soundtrack blank!
Then it hits me, they are nameless bits. They have been pushed aside, souls ignored in the dark throws of my hard drive. Eureka! That is the root of my disconnection with Novel. There is reason you don't name farm animals, they seem less tasty when you put a title to your burger. Take eggs for example. Full of protein, how would that huevos ranchero taste if they were called embryos instead, because well that's what the hell they are. So that is the cause of my detachment, it was my egg. Enjoyed at the moment easily discarded because it had no life to it.
The Sacrificing of Grace, that's its name. It's lovely, joyfully endearing name. I reread it and I am in love again. I am inspired and I am found!

I wrote this while listening to The tallest man on Earth, FYI. ( the actual song, had to stoop to video since it won't let me post mp3, sigh)

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Publishing purgatory

So what is the proper amount of time to wait, waste until faced with the harsh reality that the editor you submitted to thinks your work is shit? According to Avon Impulse it is a irritating three months. Three months of waiting, but for what? Well an acceptance of course. Still is it insane to value a rejection almost as much? I don't refer to the wait around, unable to submit that particular work to another firm until it has been freely dismissed, insert term "painfully ignored" here, I mean the potential of receiving feedback. Why do I suck? Is it my query? Did my query hold up only to have my actual novel dissipate any hope of my being a justifiable author? Could it be my lack of professional expertise? You see I can remedy the first two, but the latter is inevitably out of my scope of control. How does one get street cred as an author? What does it take to go from a simple figure hovering over a keyboard writing to stay the unstable demons of my mind to being a bona fided writer? How does one earn that coveted R? I look on with frustration, stumbling to go from a person that writes to a writer. If someone is blessed with this sacred knowledge by all means radiate your intelligence on me! Short of having to shank a librarian I am all about gaining my literary stripes.
Sadly, Avon Impulse will not grace me with a letter of disgrace. No Dear John, you are not editorially viable,  your verbally stunted and you tend to use the term fuck a tad too often and offensively. Nope I will receive none of that, sigh. So now I just wait out my time, praying to get bought, peddling my literary goods. I will not fall, I will spend the next two and half months waiting peacefully, centering my chi and writing my ass off! I am waist deep into novel two and mentally arranging several more. Viva la Inspiration!

Friday, June 3, 2011

Disclaimer

So I speak my mind the good the bad, wretched, amusing, and hearty ramblings that course through me at any given time. I am not always, insert the term often, politically correct. I am not a  holder of hands a  fondler of your feelings, I am a writer. If what I say offends you, I'm almost sorry, you are more then welcome to move on. I won't always be tragic, I won't always be funny, in fact I can't promise I will constantly be posting ( I'm also deep in novel land, pray to the publishing gods for me please), I can promise I will give it my all. I will spare no thought, feeling or observation no matter how vague or trying. No matter how blisteringly wrong or positively divine. I am who I am. I offer myself and it is up to you to take it or leave it.