Decisions, Decisions...

I'm the decision maker in my family. If too many people try to make decisions, no one makes them. Instead of living in complete chaos, I simply made myself that person, and so all decisions get made and acted upon. That's been happening for almost 20 years... until this one. 

A big decision needed to be made about one of our kids, and my husband freaked out about it. He didn't want any decision made without his say so. He was so distraught about this happening, that I turned this issue over to him completely, even though it would affect me and the kids greatly but him not so much. I told him to decide and to let me know by Sunday night (tonight).

On the first day, he had no idea how to proceed. I told him that we needed to create a full list of options that he would pick from. He didn't know what the options were, so I made the list for him. Then, he didn't know when the decision needed to be made and put it off for another two days. Then, when I pressed, he freaked and said he'd already made it but that we must not have been listening. I told him to write it down, and then we'd all know what it was and wouldn't forget. He threw his hands up, ran around yelling and locked himself in our bedroom like I did when I found out J.J. Abrams was going to get involved in Star Wars.

It has been fascinating to watch. He really thought that someone would just come along and make this decision for him, and then he could be mad about the decision without having to have made it and without taking any blame. The more I watched this, the more it dawned on me that this is exactly what happens to those people who always say they "want to write" but don't have time and don't know what to write about.

I've always wondered about those people, as there are so, so many of them. Why would you want that but then not do that? But this made me see a little more clearly. Is it just that I married a whiny man-child? Actually, no. He is delightful in virtually every other situation than this one. He is readily able to handle pretty much anything, and he takes my weird crap in stride. So, why freak out about this?

I think that making a large, and final, decision is probably scary to a lot of people. I don't have that fear anymore, but I have to remember that many people do. When they say they "want to write" but don't have time, we shouldn't immediately get annoyed. What they're really saying that no one has told them to write. No one has given them clear expectations about what they should be doing.

So here's the thing- no one is going to give anyone those expectations. You know all of those shows and movies and other shows, and probably plays, where someone demands that a woman write for their newspaper/magazine/website because they are such a delightful person they will obviously be good at it? That never happens. Ever. It will never happen to you. If you think you want to write, no one on the planet "has time." The only thing you can do is to make a firm decision that this is what you will do, and this is where any leisure time you have will go. Make that final decision, and then act on it. That's what every writer does, and there's really no other option. 

What Can Writers Do to Fight Nazis?

Nazis are out there. I don't mean people who seem off or who say things that can be compared to Nazis. Actual. Nazis.

I couldn't sleep last night thinking about them being out there, not knowing how many of them are, not knowing where they are. They're all over.

Out and about yesterday, it struck me that POC can't know whether the people they come across are Nazis are not. Anyone they see could be one of these white nationalist, white supremacist, unapologetic Nazis. I literally wanted to hug every POC I saw and tell them I wasn't a Nazi. Thankfully, I restrained my weird self. But the thought was horrifying. That is no way for people to live in this country or any other.

Using Your Skills

I searched for things to do about this much of yesterday. What can everyday people even do about this? It isn't enough to send money to organizations who fight this. I don't have all that much money to send. I have a bunch of offspring and pets and teenagers eat so much it's seriously unreal. They NEVER stop eating. Hopefully the ACLU can buy some office supplies with what I sent.

But in reality, both sides have money. Both sides have resources and people and money and office supplies. It occurred to me that to really do something, people have to analyze their skills and figure out how they can apply them to fighting Nazis.

Unfortunately, I really have only two skills, if I'm being honest. I can write and I am good at staying organized. That's pretty much it. I kept thinking last night there was little that someone with those skills to really do anything.

But waking this morning, it occurred to me that writers can do what they've always done to fight wrongs. They can write. That's more powerful than sending money, and it has the power to reach further than attending a rally. That's what I have to bring to the table.

Days Off Are For the Weak

For many, many, many years I worked seven days a week. Hey, I love my job. And hey, I do have a bunch of offspring. But beginning this year, I decided to take Sundays off. Sundays have been for catching up on crap like laundry and organizing the offsprings' rooms. But starting today, I'll be taking on something else.

I'm starting a website to keep tabs on neo-Nazism. I've started the content today and am searching for a good domain name.  Sundays can be devoted to laundry and fighting Nazis.

It's what I can do.

Maybe it will go nowhere, and maybe it will change a mind or two. Hopefully, it will help a few people recognize this evil for what it is. If you're a writer, write about this scourge. Get your voice out there. It may make a difference for a few people. It may just put your thoughts out there amongst the other voices. Either way, it's better than doing little outside reading about the problem.

Why Is It So Stressful Here? I'll Tell You Why.

So, this came out a little while back. I live in the most stressed-out state in the country. Normally I don't really care that I live here. Wtf do I care, really? I work from home, my friends are cool, non-redneck types. My area is full of scientists and engineers. Whatever. You can afford a lot of house here, and I can have as many big trees as I want.

So, why is it so stressful? I'll tell you exactly why. Because no one WILL EVER DO THEIR JOBS. I spend a good bit of my time trying to get other people to do their jobs in between doing my own. Today is a great example. I had a rabid raccoon in my yard. It stared at me. For FIVE HOURS. You'd think the city or county or state or Superman or whomever would come right out and get it, right? Oh hell no. No one wanted anything to do with it.

It took me those five hours to get someone to agree to come out and get it, and that's after contacting the state and getting a state game warden to beg the local animal control to come and get it. Did he get it? No. He tried, but it scampered away somewhere. I helped to look for it, but we never found it. If it comes back, well, it'll be back. That's it. No one will help, and I'll get rabies. It's fine.

The Tale of the Materials

Another case in point: when my father passed away recently, I inherited some materials. That's all I can really say. Some materials. These are not materials that should really be in a house or even a lab, really. So, you'd think someone would want to take them. Um, no. No one in the city, county or state would take them. The local university wouldn't take them. Freaking Oak Ridge wouldn't even call me back. Even local hazmat companies said no.

Does it matter to anyone that I could basically build a specific type of device in my garage if I wanted to? Oh good God no. It does not. After weeks of calling and emailing various agencies, organizations and people, I've given up. Those materials just live in my garage now. What are they? I'll never say. I just have to keep them safe and live with them. If you want to report me to the authorities- PLEASE DO. Maybe they will do something about it. But, don't bet anything on it.

Today Has Been Awesome

In between staring at a rabid animal and calling everyone in the world to see if they could do something about it, I've been trying to make an appointment to get a passport for one of my kids. Guess what? They won't do their jobs, either. I have been calling for almost seven hours, and they refuse to answer the phone. Once they even picked it up and hung up. I guess it was irritating to hear the phone ringing at work.

I don't know if this is how other states work. I don't know if anyone else has a garage housing materials, a rabid animal in their yard and no way to get a passport, but I'm guessing that most other states run more efficiently than this. It's tough to write anything at all when you spend so much time begging other people to so the simple jobs they're paid to do. I get up and do my freaking job every day, and I don't even have a boss.

What's really odd to me is that people rarely take freelancers seriously, like we don't have real jobs. And yet, I work every day, usually excluding Christmas, and get more done than any of the seven people I talked to on the phone today about rabies. Maybe this state should be run on a freelance basis? Maybe people who don't need a boss could take matters into their own hands and get stuff done?

Loss, Strength and Ben Kenobi

I didn't blog in 2016. I didn't have the time. I didn't have the strength. 

First, my mother got cancer, then my father developed terminal cancer suddenly. Then I got cancer, and then my brother got cancer. All of this happened in a six-month span last year. The day I found out that my brother also had cancer, I started screaming and screaming and couldn't stop. I think I continued screaming in my mind for a long, long time. 

All four of us, my entire family of origin, were dealing with our own cancer treatments, appointments and surgeries. Mine is thankfully gone for now. Mom's is gone for now. The same is not true for my brother or father. My father died on Thanksgiving Day with me holding his hands and my brother and mother on the other side of him, watching those last breaths. 

After that, I ran out into the woods and sat alone for hours. I spent the next four days high on pain pills, sitting in the woods by myself. I knew what this was. I knew exactly what I had to do and what life would be like. My father had been the cornerstone of us all, the one who taught us all everything, who knew everything and took care of everything. Anything you wanted to learn and anything you really needed came from him. All of that was over. I was now the man of the family. 

Ben Kenobi had to die to make Luke continue on his own, to learn and grow and take care of his own sh*t. Gandalf had to die, for a while, to leave the hobbits on their own to discover their own destinies. Dumbledore had to die to make Harry Potter a man. That's what this was. I had to take care of everyone now. Unfortunately, I couldn't leave the woods. I couldn't comfort anyone. I didn't speak to anyone for about a month and didn't write a word. 

But, strength always resurfaces. If it's there, it doesn't go away. Despite three surgeries in less than a year, I'm coming back. I've written three stories this year, and I'm discovering what it really means to be the cornerstone of a family. It means sometimes not being liked, sometimes being rebelled against and taking a hard line when needed. I've had to tell the family, Rick Grimes style, that this is not a democracy. My kids, jokingly, asked whether this was a Ricktatorship. 

You're goddamn right it is. 

Critiques, Complaints and a Sale

Since I last blogged, I've sold another short story and attended a meeting with my local critiquing group about literary magazines. The story I sold was a straight sci-fi piece, bringing my sold genres to: horror, sci-fi, fantasy, mainstream, YA fantasy and a weird sci-fi/fantasy mashup.

Critiques

I've always sought out critiques from the people around me. In high school I made my friends tell me what they thought about stories I was working on. In college I made my roommate do it. In the past few years, I've made my kids and a friend do it. But earlier this year, I branched out into an actual critique group where you have to get dressed and do your hair and drive somewhere. 

The process of it was just like what they did on Girls; everyone sat around a big table and discussed each work in turn with each person talking about what could be improved and anything they liked about the work. It was actually the most fun I'd had in a while because I'm a giant nerd and talking about plot points, tones and character creation for hours was super fun.

But here's the thing, because isn't there always one? It occurred to me over the next couple of days that having my work picked apart and every little part of a line that didn't work and every little plot point that people didn't agree with kind of aggravated me. It wasn't that I wanted people to like the story more or that I didn't like it being critiqued. Quite the contrary- I know very well that not everyone can possibly like the same work (I actually know someone who hates Harry Potter and found the books to be awful.), and I do want to know what can be improved in any story. 

No, the problem was that it started occurring to me that this is the only branch of the arts where every little thing is picked apart and a work isn't considered a good one if there is any little thing that people don't like. Consider the world of music. Are there critique groups that pick apart songs and tell the singer that a note near the end wasn't very good or a line didn't sound sincere? Do directors solicit critiques about every scene they create and find out which shots aren't perfect? Do painters have their brushstrokes critiqued and have people tell them which parts of the painting didn't work? So, why then do writers do this?

I do like being critiqued. I  am actually going back this week to be picked apart again and this time with a story that isn't as good as the one they saw last month. I'm looking forward to telling them that I sold the story I submitted to them last time and hearing what they think of the latest weird offering. But I am annoyed by the idea that this is the only branch of the arts that is so savaged and so willing to have its minutia combed through. Sure, it may make your work better to hear what's wrong with it. Maybe. I'm not sure. I think any improvements that I've made over the years, though, have been because I read what I'd done and it didn't have the desired response from me. I rewrote items until they did. In the end, that may be the only real way to improve- write until you have something you enjoy reading. 

I Literally Forgot I Had a Blog

I haven't blogged in a while, and the title tells you why. In addition to this being the roughest market for finding content work that I've ever seen, I've had the novel monkey on my back as well as trying to shop short stories.

I do love crafting a short stories, but there are a few problems with doing so. I am considering not creating as many of them to focus more on the two novels I've been working on for the last couple of years.

Here's the trouble with short stories:

• They pay crap. It's unbelievable how little most publishers will pay for a short story. I generally won't submit to a market that pays like five bucks (yes, there are tons of those). There are actually a lot of them now that pay nothing at all- and they are still choosy and demand your best work. Nope, not subbing to them either. I always sub to the high payers first, get rejected by them and then start subbing to the mid-paying markets. Those markets, however, are still going to be low paying and not truly worth the time it took you to write the work and submit it out from a monetary standpoint. I have bills, man. Lots of bills.
• The submissions process is grueling. Speciality magazines, ezines and fancy literary magazines are the markets that I have primarily been submitting to with short stories. They are so specialized in both topics and voice that it's tough to get on with most of them. This has made it necessary to submit most of my work to dozens of them, and that takes dozens of hours. This has further reduced writing income by keeping me from doing my paid, non-fiction work to spend hour after hour querying, signing up for every site's submission system and altering cover letters to suit each. Again, bills, man.
• It's been a distraction from my novels. Since I've been writing and subbing out short stories, I've sold five or six and have another four or so that I've been subbing out. That is a significant amount of time that has been taken away from the novels that I need to finish. One of them is a strong edit away from being done, and the other is still just an adolescent learning to walk in high heels. They both need time and attention.

Once I get my remaining stories either sold or thrown in the trash and lit on fire, I think I may just retreat from short fiction for a while. At least, until all of the rights revert back to me and I can sub them all out again as reprints. :o

I Sold Some Mother@#$#ing Fiction

One of my biggest goals in life has been to get some fiction published. As many writers quickly discover, non-fiction is what pays the bills. With a growing family, I've been highly dedicated to writing the non-fiction that buys shoes and calamari (seriously- I am all about calamari). But with a milestone birthday this year (no, I won't say which one) and still no fiction sold, I took it upon myself late last year to get into high gear with getting fiction out there.

I started submitting short stories to publishers in my late teens, and in those days you had to physically print the stuff out and mail it in. It was tough for me to afford as a student, and I didn't grab much interest from publishers. I gave up in pursuit of non-fiction, and I haven't submitted any fiction again until last last year. These days, it is so much easier with electronic submissions. I had two short stories that I shopped for months, and I kept getting rejections for them over and over again.

One of the stories I believed in with all of my heart. I just believed that it was worth my time and trouble and the dozens of rejections it was getting. I got comments from publishers that it was basically useless, and one publisher actually said "No one wants to read about vampires anymore." I got several rejections because my protagonist wasn't some kind of warrior woman. No, she was just a regular woman without any super powers or astonishing strength. Isn't there any room for that in fiction, I started to wonder? Do all female protagonists have to be warriors or superwomen? Really?

But I believed in that story because it was intricate and extremely detailed and full of truth. I believed in it because I felt it and because I saw something in it that was rich and full and engulfing. I submitted it to various publishers for 10 months and finally gave up. They weren't seeing what I saw. I wasn't going to submit it anymore.

Bam

Then, one day, after I had given up, a publisher sent me an email that made by throat catch. I was sitting down with my laptop when I saw what I thought was the third rejection I'd get that day. It wasn't. It was the most amazing email I've ever gotten. It was from a publisher who went on and on and on about how amazing the story was and how lucky they'd be if I sold it to them. I had to get up and walk around because I couldn't tell if I was breathing. Someone else saw what I saw, and they wanted to pay for it and put it in print.

What?

Within a few days, the second story I wrote was accepted by another publisher. Then, two little flash stories that I had submitted were accepted by still another. All four acceptances happened within about a week.

One of the more interesting things was the reactions that people had when I told them the news. When I first start telling people that I had sold some fiction, the first question every single person asked was, "For how much?" I wasn't selling a lamp on eBay. Selling fiction isn't really about the amount you get. To put it in perspective, the other day I wrote an article about how to write fiction, and that sold for more than any one fiction story that I've sold so far. Non-fiction may pay the bills, but it's amazing to know that publishers believe in your fiction so much that they will pay for it and foot the bill for publishing it.

The other question I kept getting when I announced subsequent sales is whether it was the same publisher who was buying it all. I don't know that people understood how insulting that was. No, family and friends, there are multiple publishers willing to pay- not just one guy somewhere who wants to buy it all. WTF?

Being able to sell some fiction has given me a serious boost of confidence for the two novels that I've been working on. It's shown me that believing in a work is a real force, and that if you have a strong piece that you really believe in, it's possible to find a good home for it even when that home seems unlikely.  It's possible to find a publisher who sees it for exactly what it is.