Sunday, March 17, 2024

pep talk for myself

After weeks of nothing but rejections, I finally googled writer+rejection just to feel something other than frustration, anger, fear (am I done for, stale, washed up, a bloviating bore?).

*
A singer friend told me of a rejection they couldn't read for a year. Turns out the rejection came with an offer of mentorship but they discovered this far too late.
Life makes no sense sometimes, and others, all too much.
Anyway, here's a link to 20 famous writers on being rejected.
Onward.
 

Sunday, March 3, 2024

it got vicious fast

I attended a Manuscript Academy workshop a few weeks ago, dedicated to working on agent queries and synopses. I watched videos and submitted homework and in one of the assignment threads, found an emerging group of memoir writers. We connected over email and agreed to schedule some Zoom get togethers. We shared what we’re working on, sample queries, then first ten pages. 

Two meetings later, it’s over.  

Dunzo.  

The quickest literary crash-and-burn I’ve ever experienced. 

I think it came down to expectations. I suggested at meeting #1 that we talk about how we were going to offer critiques, but no one seemed interested. At meeting #2 several of the writers got real vicious, castigating one particular writer for their memoir topic, sniffing, “It doesn’t need to be written about.” The attacked writer pushed back, followed up with a buh-bye email, and one of the attackers apologized, but the other doubled-down. 

I liked several of the writers a lot but it’s way too many emails and far too much drama so I’m bowing out. Great subject matter for a short story though. 

Straw into gold!

Wednesday, February 28, 2024

when to worry

Anxiety is my ride-or-die apparently and gosh I wish I could kick her out of the car.

It’s been a rough few days.

I’m tired of feeling gross.

Tired of not having the kinds of friends here I can confide in. That’s on me, a little bit. I know a lot of happy gadflies and while they’re super fun to run around with, they’re not confidantes.

Work is awful, like unwaveringly terrible and awful, I feel overlooked and undervalued and that’s weighing on me.

Writing = rejection right now, over and over, from journals and writer friends. Just, everywhere.

Do I stay or go? On so many fronts, existentially and temporally and now.

I just don’t know.

Tuesday, February 20, 2024

despite not being a poet

Despite not being a poet, I attended a hybrid poetry workshop the other day. It was led by a local poet I admire and held at a wonderful Black-owned bookstore.

As the crowd of attendees swelled, folks packing onto velvet settees and chatting cheerfully, my anxiety increased.

Do I make excuses and flee? (the poet already saw me and said hi)

Take another CBD mint? (hemingway ftw, I can’t medicate and write)

Or tough it out? (I stayed)

*

My goal was to force my mind into other fresher lanes. I’ve been hauling ass down the freeways of short fiction and longer-form CNF for awhile now.

The poet shared some beautiful writing, including a piece by Roxane Gay. I began to understand, dimly, dumbly, how the structure made the piece more powerful.

Then we did writing exercises, and I stared at my computer and mostly failed. It felt stressful and panicky. I don’t know if going was a good idea, or a successful one but I also don’t think that matters.

Thursday, February 15, 2024

What I'm reading (winter 2024)

It's been a mad dash of memoir reading these past months, including a few by celebrities:

Kerry's: the magnificent "Scandal" star's memoir Thicker Than Water reads like a politician's, to me. Elegant, contained, not too revealing. Much like her, think.
Britney's: The Woman in Me reminded me why she's a megastar: it's deeply personal, fun, sad, insightful, and full of longing. I'm embarrassed at how terribly we have treated this genuine artist.
Jada's: I was interested to learn more about Jada Pinkett Smith, apart from the snark and the mean headlines. In Worthy, she writes vividly about her tough Baltimore upbringing, shares rich details about her longtime friendship with Tupac, and generally paints a picture of intellect and accomplishment. It lost me with the woo woo stuff toward the end, though.

In a more literary vein, I just reread Ayaan Hirsi Ali's Infidel. Her story of her determination to live the kind of life she wanted, despite many years of hardships in Somalia and Kenya and Holland, two forced marriages, the loss of a sister and the strictures of men-led religion. Unfortunately now she's leaned into belief in a christian god, but her story is still compelling.

And I was reluctant to read Jennette McCurdy's I'm Glad My Mom Died, mostly due to the title. A thoughtful barista in Memphis urged me to read it nonetheless and I'm glad they did.
What a story, of celebrity, anxiety, abuse, lies and love.
It ended abruptly and in a way I get why, it's almost too much pain to bear ultimately, but I'll just say I'm amazed at McCurdy's bravery and wish her well.