I’m working on an essay about a small a gap I see in crime fiction settings and whether there’s a classist connection at its heart but it’s slowly becoming apparent that I have an entirely different problem.

This is probably not as much of an issue for me as it is for many others, but it’s there; an uneasiness at stating my thoughts. A sense that I’m good enough to craft fiction without problem but forming an opinion based on my experiences and those shared with me is seemingly above my station

I’ve been trained that speaking out loud is “whining”, that calling out something that seems wrong is “negative” or “ill-informed”. I’ve been told that railing against problems like lack of diversity, lack of own voices, or recently, children in cages, is problematic. Speaking out about these things is negative and removes the fun in writing a genre about people murdering each other, apparently.

Obviously, not a single marginalized writer has said those things to me, so you do the math as to who I hear that from the most.

What I’m left with is feeling like shit because I notice problematic trends that hurt people and hurt the genre in which I write. I’m left feeling emotionally exhausted and, frankly, hurt because people I liked seem to look down on me. Ultimately, the grift seems obvious: wear people down to the fucking bone so we walk away. Inspire hopelessness with a smile, it seems. Some criticize every action or word as never good enough – convincing those willing to take a step forward that they don’t have the baseline faculties to even walk.

In other words, gatekeeping “normalcy”. An avoidance of even subtle change for fear the world will turn inside out.

I find myself wanting to explode every day. Not in anger – it ain’t that serious – but with emotion. I want to talk about the problems I see and I want to find solutions – even if its in my own little bubble. I want to drag the microaggressions out into the light so we prevent the bigger monsters from entrenching themselves. Then there are days I wish I could burn it all down (something others might find laughable, but I’d argue they have no idea what this feels like).

Isn’t there a line past empathy that veers directly into frustration and then anger? Shouldn’t I be angry hearing the latest sexual assault story or about another case of casual racism when people are proving themselves CONSTANTLY? Nodding seriously and saying, “I know that feel bro/sis.” starts feeling like muscle memory – something without effort that ultimately means nothing now.

And everything becomes so fucking hard! It’s hard to narrow down my focus when I feel this way. It’s hard to explain myself when I have to constantly filter and preen and fucking pick my goddamned words to avoid harming folks with none of these insecurities – people who’ve never once given me the same benefit.

What’s wildest? The idea of wanting diversity; of asking why there isn’t room at the table for new things is an unpopular opinion. As if wanting to treat folks with minimal respect is the same as bringing up how I like Freddy Got Fingered while at a dinner table full of people talking about Citizen Kane (spoilers: both movies suck but the former is at least enjoyable).

And the doubts still creep in. I’m wrong. The world isn’t so bad. I’m making too big a deal of all this. Maybe I just don’t matter in the greater scheme or worse: I’m a hack and I’m deluded. I just want something to whine about since everything is fine now, see? There’s like, three people of color at this table. The checklist is finished! Besides, why should I speak out if I’m not taking 100% of my own time to fix the problem? Surely, I can’t be serious if my life is not utterly consumed with the mission; job, family, and mental health be damned!

Let’s stop real quick for some clarification. I’m not fishing for a goddamn thing here – this blog is where I can promote and also express myself. If you’re reading the posts here, well, 1) thanks and 2) this is the only goddamn place in the universe I can speak without feeling the weight of a stare – I’ll talk about what I want. I don’t need assurances or comments or shares (I also do not need DMs and texts looking for gossip). Move on. If you get a little bug up your ass whenever I speak because I’m always SO WRONG – move on.

The doubts, yada, yada, yada…

But I need to keep moving.

Yeah, the system is entirely built to make me want to quit and to make me doubt everything I do. The ladders reserved for everyone else are built with extra rungs. The peaks at the top aren’t flat either. They’re narrow and jagged.

It took me a long time to realize that I can no longer please everyone. I’m pushing 40 and there are those in my peer groups that still insist on me fitting a criteria they define; on being another support for their own motives. I’m done with that. I’m done feeling weird or wrong for writing what I write and saying what I say. I work hard to prevent hurt and I work hard at being the best person I can be. I’ll never be perfect but I also know what’s in my head – I know I don’t say these things and work the way I work in order to keep up appearances.

I also know plenty of people won’t believe that and that used to bother me too. I have to stop letting it bother me. Those people do not deserve that from me.

I’m going to write and I’m going to edit and mentor and podcast. I’m going to work as hard as I can to bring diverse voices into the room with me (and guess what, diverse means EVERYONE. Its not tokenism). I’m going to continue to produce material that’s publishable and readable and if it all means a single half-breed kid with a lot of social issues picks up a book about things that speak to them; hey, I’m good.

I’m also going to finish that essay. Whether anyone reads it or takes offense to it is up to them. It isn’t up to me. I’m not here to make anyone feel better about themselves. That isn’t my job. Just like it isn’t anyone else’s job to make me feel better about myself.

I can 100% do that on my own – and I will. I am angry and I will own that. I think we all have a right to be angry. The real work is in finding how to use this anger to do better for myself and others. To refuse to let it eat me alive.

OK – vented. Thanks again for reading. Back to work.

 

This week the biggest kid gets to commute into the city with me for reasons I’ll leave out (all good stuff).

It’s striking to watch him. This little person that used to be a little ball of a human. I watch the way his eyes light up when he sees something for the first time; the way he talks to me about things I pretend I don’t know about because I can’t get enough of hearing his thoughts on everything.

This stirs a lot of emotions inside me that I don’t want to let go of but sometimes wish weren’t there. I never know if I’m doing any of this right, but he goes and makes my heart swell with pride and I know it must be more him than me—I’m just not that good at this adulting thing; can’t be.

What a gift.

One of the very first pieces of writerly advice I remember reading after my first publishing credit was to jump onto ALL OF THE SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORMS.

A few years later and I think it’s very safe to say that advice is bullshit.

I’ve quit Facebook. Deactivated the account since Facebook suspiciously won’t allow me to delete the damn account (try it; the site hangs and you never go to the next page – how quaint). So I deleted the app, removed my bookmarks, and deactivated. It’s better for my long term mental health and Twitter, while rife with fucking nazis, lets me mute and block at my discretion so I have a more properly curated feed.

To the mental health point. I’ve found Facebook became a strange place for me. I couldn’t be myself for fear of alienating complete strangers but I also was my most domestic self (pics of family, sharing vacation plans, etc). Then there was inability to be political without labeling myself as being “negative” or being accosted by my more conservative-minded family members (Eric, I know you probably don’t read these, but if you do, rest assured, you do not count in that group).

So I quit something worth quitting. It feels a little like when I quit smoking. Every so often, I get the urge to check my phone and get that little dopamine hit, but there’s still Twitter and honestly, I feel a lot better leaving all that bullshit behind.

I’m making this sound like a bigger deal than it really is, but I’m beginning to realize that as a writer, I’d rather bring myself to a place where I engage a little less personally, if that makes sense. I suppose I want to be myself but not at a level that demands quite the amount of devotion maintaining multiple online personas seems to require. On Twitter I can be political, a little perverse, and frankly, a little more obnoxious. I like that version of me, and honestly, I want to stop caring if anyone else does care.

So if you want to stay on top of whatever I’m up to, @GoshDarnMyLife is where to do that. I’m off Instagram too since that’s an FB endeavor. Who knows, maybe I’ll do Snapchat (I will probably not do Snapchat).

Be easy,

Angel

 

I’m querying agents again with my latest MS. It’s strange to ‘go back to the well’ as it seems but at the same time, there’s a lot that’s different this time than the last.

I wouldn’t say there’s more confidence. That would be a half-truth. I always worry about the quality of my work and rarely feel like I knock it out of the park – even if I like the work. That said, I’m not feeling as terrified of rejection. What people feel about my writing is subjective. Having work out there helped to get me understanding that statement more than just being able to parrot it. That’s a pretty big step.

It’s also a lot easier to ignore the queries being fairly intimate with how long it takes to read emails with stories from hopeful writers. It’s a bear to accept x amount of stories from eager or over-eager people desperate for an immediate answer. I think I have plenty of work to keep me busy while I wait for that first round of responses (or non-responses!).

Ultimately, I’m excited. This MS has been in the works for over 2 years. It started as a passage for a writing class, turned into a pitch for a comic that nearly happened, and became a novel. A lot of work went into this and I do hope people get to read it and enjoy it as much as I have creating it.

If not, there are always the other projects clogging up the hard drive.