Oh boy, where to start with this one.

Not about to point fingers, just a summary. Someone had the bright idea to post an essay under a pseudonym that was basically a toothless tone policing piece to marginalized writers. It was a political, and generally overwritten, piece that contradicted itself within a handful of paragraphs and came off as pretty pretentious. Like, 100% written from a place of privilege.

So, to that pseudonymous author, if you were legit wearing internet blackface to prevent criticism, maybe take a class or something – you did a really bad job and it was stupidly obvious to anyone a shade darker than bone white.

Also, I must reiterate. It is Walter Mosley. M-O-S-L-E-Y. Not hard to remember how to spell a living legend’s name. Pretty sure you wouldn’t have an issue spelling Lawrence Block (just saying).

THAT SAID.

Let’s talk a little bit about the damage bullshit tone policing can do (especially in a tight knit community while being a coward that hides behind the anonymity afforded to you). See, people are talking now. DMs and texts are flying back and forth. Some folks piecing this little mystery together. Some folks agreeing with you and disagreeing with you. Some folks saying, “And of course, Angel’s chiming in” (I know this and still, somehow, I open my yap. Take a think about how much I give a shit about your opinion – seriously, go for it. You might get scared.).

But all these whispers can cause extra drama. It can cause arguments among friends and even further strain already strained relationships. Our actions have consequences and if we’re ready to face them and, you know, actually use our names when we vomit out our opinions, we need to be ready to face those consequences and accept the responsibility. You might think it isn’t a big deal, but you never know when you’re the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Maybe it’s better to not be that person? Call me crazy.

I have my own theories about our pseudonymous genius, and while I wouldn’t air them publicly, I’m pretty fucking sure you’ll read this. I’m also pretty sure you’re feeling pretty clever. That’s good. I’ve said it before: sometimes sad people need to keep that mental health check. You do you.

What I cannot abide by is the subtext – the mockery of those who’ve put their necks out, explicitly women of color in our community. You want to mock someone, grow a pair and mock me openly. I promise I can handle shit. And this is not in any way to demean the strength of my friends in this community. I know they got shit on lock too, but they’ve had enough to deal with. I haven’t. I can use the entertainment.

As for Penzler and Fairstein (I’m not going to bother to look up how to spell her scummy ass name), no they should be called out. We should always call out people who will go the extra mile to make misery in the lives of marginalized; ESPECIALLY those who have profited for decades off of that misery. It’s entirely possible to call out the bullshit, to be an ally, AND get a piece of this imaginary pie you cited.

Because if you were marginalized or a real ally you’d know, and to paraphrase a little pop culture reference, the pie’s a goddamn lie.

Be easy.

 

3 months on and I’m finally feeling “normal” again.

I wrote HELL CHOSE ME a few years back. The manuscript landed me an agent which sort of went nowhere and left me back at square one. Ultimately, I found the book a great home and waited for it to exist.

Life is funny since a book very much married to a lot of the issues I had with my family would finally release when I found myself in a place where I almost envied my protagonist. See, in the book, he gets a chance for closure with some of the people who hurt him and undervalued him. Me? Not so much.

Fiction is therapy, though, and I think now that I’ve had time to relax and not think about the book or the issues, I’ve found something close to that closure. It may not necessarily be real, but I wrote it out. My baggage exists for anyone to see.

I’ve learned that a lot of my deficiencies are of my own making. Were they seeded and somewhat nurtured by others? At times, sure. End of the day, I’m the one that continued watering the weeds, really, and I’m happy to be able to see that and work on focusing on the better parts of me while fixing the bits that need fixing. A lot of that’s left me feeling better than I have in a long time—sort of more connected with my identity and what I want for myself.

When I started writing, I entertained a lot of fun fantasy. Big book deals, ego stroke, and validation. That last bit especially. And it’s not like I still don’t, but lately there’s been something new filling that void. I look at what I’ve accomplished and honestly, I’m proud of myself. I know I can and will do more, but I’m not feeling the pressure I used to feel—the imposter syndrome, the FOMO, that weird desire to compare myself to others.

I’m certain I’m not impervious to a relapse, but until then I think I’ve got a handle on what I want and how I want to do it. I’ve always been the type to do things on my terms and now that I feel more like myself than I ever in this little bubble, I can’t see myself doing it any other way.

That said, I’ve got an anthology to concentrate on boosting in the next couple of months. This is an opportunity for me to get Latinx writers into the hands of new readers and to get my publisher past different doors. I was worried I wasn’t ready to do something like this last year, but I’m honestly excited at the prospect of buckling down and hashing this plan out. Hell, the excitement’s bleeding into my desire to finish projects, so double bonus.

More soon.