Writing, and being a writer

So….writing is at least for me the easy part. It is the part I enjoy. I have so many stories, poems and ideas floating around my head. Problem is the business aspects. Oh, editing? Yeah I can do that. I am even able to do the publishing, thanks to Amazon. I am not good at promoting what I have written.

I have been wary of submitting what I write. Part of the reason is because I am not inclined toward the rejection letters. While I know that the rejection letters are a part of writing, my poetry has always been a opening to my heart. My soul laid bare… So I was not willing to face the unending rejection. Which now seems like ego to me. My writing is good, but all writing can improve. Is having pride in one’s own words not a good thing? The other reason for my hesitant nature towards submitting is simple. I really hate the idea of someone else having the rights to my work. However I have seen some that claim rights to the work they publish. Not many, and I refuse to submit to any who do.

Well I have noticed that writer’s are often a solitary lot, I joined a few groups on social media. I was hoping to interact and gain tips on how to promote what I write. Maybe a few to make the words better. You know, be social with others who are into the same thing… And I found the darndest thing. Most of the social media groups for writers? Well it is everyone promoting their own books. No sharing, no discussion. So I have been going on, because the writing itself is really not a choice. I will be writing until I am no longer able…. Still the publishing thing… Well I do that so I can share with others a glimpse into my soul.

So I was in a bad place tonight because of yet another rejection. I posted it on social media. I really was hearing the same thing I always hear when I fail to accomplish something. My mother. So I posted for a change. I had a friend, also a writer(Kim Bailey Deal) suggest that I needed beta readers… Ok that was a new concept. She also introduced me to a group of writers who actually discuss writing. I hope that this will lead me to improving my craft, and maybe to some good new friends.

Dear Mama

Dear Mama,

I love you. All that I have ever wanted was to feel like you were proud of me. I tried to be who you wanted. I found that didn’t work. Then I tried being myself. I found that I was happier, but you still were not proud of me. Mama I am fourty one, and I have succeeded. I am published. I am usually a happy soul. Yet when I fall, and I do occasionally fall. It is your voice in my ear, telling me you expected it all along. When I get rejected for my poetry, (as rejections are normal for the writer to recieve) that everyone else would tell me I wrote so well? I hear you telling me that you didn’t want to hear it because of how depressing it was.

Mama, I have published five volumes of poetry, three children’s books, and a novella. You know that family have hardly even acted like it mattered? I am doing what I told you I wanted to do at nine. I am a writer. So I may never be a novelist, children’s books still need written. I have never asked for much. Just a hey, that is awesome. Or even… Uh sharing it on social media that you have a daughter who is printed. So I put space between us. I admit that I was tired of feeling like you just didn’t care. I deserve to be someone who is cared about. I’m sorry that I was never the daughter you wanted, but Mama, I have always just been me.

Love always,

Your daughter.

Tired ramblings

Last night was not a good one. I doubt that I slept even a full hour. Every time I would try it would be falling into yet another nightmare. I have had them all of my life, as far back as I remember. I rarely remember them, only wake feeling afraid and small.

So I have been sleep deprived and shaky… Not a good combo. Well it has had me trying to gather all of the random thoughts swimming in my head. Quite unsuccessfully I should add. So much so that I have decided to post some here to help my mind to relax. And that it is a glimpse for you of my chaos? Bonus.

1. I miss my grandmother, well both of them. But mostly my maternal grandmother. I have been trying to learn to crochet. And she was amazing at it. She was just plain amazing, but it is the crochet that is bringing her to mind this time.

2. Samhain. Yes I am pagan. And this is a time for family.

3. I am very likely not going to end up with the death of neverland as anything but a novella. The halfway point is 5000 words. So I find myself wondering if I am trying to exceed my reach. I am a poet. I am a children’s author. I apparently can do short stories (aka novella). But can I do a novel?

3 i really am enjoying doing the art thing. If you are curious about how my art is… Myne drawings album is public on my personal Facebook (Patti Harris). Go ahead, look! I would love new input.

4. My daughter is starting to get into create music. I really want to encourage that.

5. Yule. I have a idea for a few of the people on my list. Not that my list is big. I am not able to afford much for even those.

6. Butt coasters. A friend of mine on Facebook is doing novelty crocheted coasters (www.facebook.com/nothingbuttcoasters/) and I am so tickled by the pug ones… (Thinking about them for one of my list…

7 money. Always a issue.

8. After the first of the year, do I want to do another bedtime tales?

9. Zombie castaways. Android game.. The villa (a building to make needed items in the game) if you combine love and rubber… You get bedsheets….

10. I really want a small crockpot for the truck. I wonder if I can pull it off this month.

11.whether I should do a blog post about religion. Or poets that I love and why….

12 my sister’s faeries. I feel like I should help more than I do…

So much rambling. I am heading to bed soon. I hope that I sleep better tonight.

Rape culture

So I am not an easily triggered person, usually. However, here lately social media has been testing the limits. Several times I have opened Facebook and found articles about children dying because they were raped. Then there are the articles about rapists getting nearly no punishment for what they have done. So then I take to Twitter, which is usually a little bit more light-hearted. Until the presidential election. Then there started a new hashtag. #WhyWomenDontReport. Well, that is a huge can of worms. It caused me to discuss this with Joe.

He said that most of the women who he knows, or has known have been either raped or molested. Then as we were talking about it, he considered. Of the twenty women who he was intimate with, he said he was unable to say for sure on four. The rest were survivors. That is not even a random statistic. That is women who he was with.

I was floored by that. So I posted on Facebook. (So there is a thing on Twitter… #whyIdidntreport
I DID REPORT! At least the first time. I was told that I was a liar. Not all rapes go unreported, some people speak and go unheard. I didn’t speak of the second time because I knew I wouldn’t be believed.) I had several of my friends express similar situations. Think on this, according to Google, one in three women are raped in their lifetime. Yes men are also raped, but I am not speaking of them, not yet anyway. So 1/3 of all women. We as a people need to address this… That is a huge issue.

Add to the issue the ignorance of Trump’s “locker room talk” and the treatment of the victims by those who have the power to change things. Is it any wonder that sexual assault is the least reported crime? We make it hard for the scared to overcome the fear instilled by violence to step into a safe place… And I for one am tired of that. I was raped at fourteen and molested as a small child. I am not a statistic. I am not a victim. I am not allowing Rape culture to break me. I speak my truth, and invite you to do the same.

Too much on my mind to write fiction, so here is a dish of truth.

Identity is not something that is set in stone. Even though society seems to see it that way. As a child of the eighties, the mere idea of gender fluidity was absurd. You were either a boy, or a girl. And the closest to fluidity was being a tomboy or a nancyboy. Either way, you were bullied. And the “no bully” thing wasn’t going on then. Now mind you, I am not complaining. It was just how life was. I am pleased to see the progress. For me, the idea of creating who I am now, well it is part of what I want in life. For others it is definitely more painful.

I am “one of the guys” most of the time. The first person who told me that, Scared me. As being one of the guys meant that I was flawed, somehow less female. Still in truth, it is how I am. I am happy working with my hands, no make-up, simple hair and pants. Once in a blue moon, I will get girly. Dress up in flowing skirts and soft boots. I love science and nature, and not just the flowers. I have helped to do landscaping. I have spent time in the pit at the track. I spent summers working on farms. Oh what is that? Girls can do that too? Well yeah… But I was seen as masculine because of it. I was the center for my high school football team (at one of them.) And could out bench the football team (at another). So does that make me a guy? No not really. I think that is the problem. Identity tends to be based on stupid things.

For me, Identity should be less about male/female and more about what you make of yourself. I am not male. I am not female… I fall somewhere in between. I am a poet. I am a mother. I am a writer. I am an artist. I am human. I am a gamer. I am…….

Relationships and how they work.

I am not really good at people, and the interworkings of being a good friend or significant other. Mostly because I speak my mind and am damaged from abuse in my past. So speaking my mind means that what I say doesn’t often make sense to others. Add to this those days when I am in pain, or have insomnia, or even just am deeply into my own world and forget to socialize on occasion.

How I have managed to be so richly blessed in my friends and loved ones, I am not sure. Still, I treasure those who are close to me. And I am not the sort to hold a grudge, mostly. So it sometimes surprises me how angry people can get. And how vindictive they can become.

Relationships take work. All of them. Even family and friends, if you want a good solid relationship, you need to be willing to compromise. On both sides. This is much of why I am bad at people. I have a hatd time with compromise. I can’t afford to compromise because I have been forged by others lack of compromise. I do not ask much. I take care of my daughter, and of my best friend. I try to be there for my closest friends and family.

Now that being said, I am surprised tonight. A little over a year ago I had a friend pull away, for a reason that made no sense. So I accepted that I had lost a friend, and as I always do, I picked up and moved on. Tonight she messaged me with an apology, and an explanation. It eased my mind to finally understand. It also got me considering what goes into friendship. How often have I unwittingly hurt the ones around me because I was unable to explain? I found myself sad that I really couldn’t answer. So many people I have perhaps hurt. I apologize for those I have not intended to hurt. Sometimes the explanation is another form of compromise. Which is one of my flaws, for sure.

Recognised during my lifetime

I took one of those internet quizzes… you know the sort. It was supposed to analyze my writing and tell me which famous author my writing most resembles. I was tickled to see it claim my writing most resembles Edgar Allan Poe. It also tickled my Joe. When I feel like giving up on publishing, because of what seems to be so little interest, he has always pointed something out to me. Two of my most favorite writers were virtually unknown in their own lifetimes. Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Dickinson. I admit that the thought has kept me from giving up.
Now I believe I have mentioned before the fact that I have issues communicating sometimes. I mentioned Joe’s amusement to my sister, and I think it came out wrong. She came to my defense quickly, telling me how much of an honor that was. She claimed I was recognised. I see this from her view. Yes, some know and enjoy my writing. However, it often feels like I am failing. I am terrible at marketing my work. And very few of those close to me even see what I do worth speaking of. So I am not recognised in a way I see it. To me, being recognised means that I at least have any one who knows my work enough to do a review. So far the only sales have been to family (my sister aforementioned). I am not about to stop writing. I have no choice, writing has always been a major part of who I am. Still writing does not mean I have to publish. So that which keeps it going is the idea that even if it is unappreciated now, it may still touch those it needs to later.

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