Angel Luis Colón

Oof, we starting with the bar low so there’s no place else to go but up.

Anyway, how are we all doing? Are we adjusting to the ancient curse of living in perpetually interesting times? Excellent.

Beyond the obvious, well, everything we’re going through, I’ve been trying very hard to think about what it is that I want – outside of simply surviving – out of this year.

Last year was a wash. My enthusiasm for writing, while not diminished, was tough to get a hold of. What made it worse was the obvious reason for that creative glut. I’ve found it a hell of a lot easier to have more ambiguous scapegoats. Those five letters (Trump or COVID, I mean same thing) just made everything feel like marching through mud.

That said, there were bright spots. I’ve ranted about them before. Baking. Cat. Agent. All good things. All things that are separate but would be awesome as a single entity.

I also learned something important while being forced into a life of quarantine. I learned about my worth as a creative.

Needless to say, there’s a lot of thinking to do when you’re not on an exhausting commute or occupying yourself with the noise of social living. A lot of restless nights left me staring at the ceiling – still worrying as normal – but also simply thinking about me and what my priorities are. What the root of those priorities are.

Spoilers: no major revelations. More like acceptance of long known truth. My worth is not measured by accomplishment or ticks off the list. It’s not measured by whether I’m esteemed or reviled by my peers. The score simply doesn’t matter. What does matter is being content in what I am creating. And while that’s such a rote concept, something we hear parroted all over social media, its difficult to “get” that point.

So, like the step I took a few years back in accepting my voice, I’ve begun to accept my instincts. I know I can tell a story. I know I can tell it well. Now, though, I believe I can tell the stories I want to tell. Not the stories other people expect or the stories that chase a trend. I’m sick of that. Sick of how it makes me feel trying to measure up to an invisible standard.

A big part of that is also believing that I can do things better. Whether that’s better than others or my past self doesn’t matter. I just want to be a better writer. I want to write better stories. I know that path is paved with my intentions, nobody else’s.

I have plans. I also have books. I’ve got an agent that believes in me and honestly, as thankful as I am for that, I believe I deserve that because I am that good at this.

All this ranting, what I’m trying to say: believe in you, fully. Not just a part of you. Own this shit. Accept what you excel at and what you need to build. Then do it. Do it well.

Happy New Year. May the times get a lot more fucking boring.

Angel

When I started to find my footing with crime fiction, I gravitated to the style that inspired me. The hard-boiled pulp stories that I fell in love with as a kid, the exaggerated bullshit I heard from phonies and legit hard asses growing up, and random nonsense I caught from the world around me.

Low brow. Fun. An edge that maybe perturbed others. That was the goal and writing those kinds of stories was a shit ton of fun.

But then I tried to transition that mindset to a novel. Short stories and novellas felt perfect for that style of story – the cartoonish shot of adrenaline – but not so much for long form.

So I failed to take off. Multiple times. The pulpier stories would become novellas that were publishable, but as I kept trying to find a lengthier narrative structure, it began to dawn on me that fun was only fun in doses. Now, I could simply survive by adding a bunch of drab nonsense between the fun, but I hated that. It wasn’t my voice and it wasn’t my style.

I tested the waters with Fantine Park. If you’ve read NO HAPPY ENDINGS or PULL & PRAY (meaning you got past the titles) you might notice there’s pulp there, but there’s also a LOT of soul searching. Those books were less about heists and more about struggling with familial issues, inferiority complexes, and imposter syndrome (all things I deal with, yay!).

It was also a test flight for what would become HELL CHOSE ME and a very big change in how I saw my writing and its purpose.

Fun is great, but I began to want to use these backdrops and characters as a means of exploring my issues and the issues of those around me. My mission statement shifted from just trying to get published to trying to tell more than a story. I realized I could explore real problems while camouflaging that analysis with the pulp and fun.

Now all that sounds really obvious, but I think I fooled myself into thinking I was writing more than the sum of my stories’ parts for a very long time. That simply spinning a yarn was enough and of course there was literary merit in that work (no there wasn’t) and of course I should be taken very seriously (I shouldn’t). This is probably why a lot of assholes look down their noses at genre for the most part (but that’s a subject for something far lengthier and more well put together than a blog rant).

And there’s the danger zone. The insistence on staying in that cloud and not taking the next step. There’s a challenge in trying to do more with a smaller box of tools and that’s what I want to do. I want to grow as a writer while drawing from the well that’s inspired me. That goal has paid off in many ways for me; not just in regards of whatever we deem successful on an outside level, but personally. The more I’ve matured and challenged myself with my writing, the more satisfied I’ve become with the results. The less I chase the high of being published, the more I’m happy with what I’m pulling together.

Now that doesn’t mean there isn’t room for irreverent nonsense anymore. There always is, especially in flash or shorter stories, but now I’m realizing that with the ability to write novel length, I’ve provided myself with an immense opportunity to mash my idiot sensibilities with deep discussion/analysis of being broken. It’s all at once therapeutic and exciting.

I’ve never been the type to tell other writers they HAVE to do anything. I’ve tweeted random insights and advice that’s served me well, but I do think crime fiction (at least the independent scene) needs to begin taking a long, hard look at what we want to accomplish. Are we simply content to write pulp stories with age-old tropes? The same Chandler-style detective stories? Maybe some more copaganda?

Or do we take those stories and really try to upend them as best we can? Do we finally open the door to hearing diverse perspectives on overly revered stories; maybe providing a deeper insight into what we thought we knew? Personally, I think the survival of the genre is entirely dependent on that decision. We either remain cosplayers or we move towards becoming something a little more original (no sleight on cosplay, just the best metaphor I can think of). There are only so many revenge stories we can tell, sure, but there has to be a way to add new flavor to this.

The answer’s not easy, but I believe that to simply strive for these things. To take the bigger swings would be beneficial. Believing we can succeed by following the same path dozens of others tread is simply no longer a sustainable model and those who insist that it is will do more damage than any effective change could possibly do.

Ok then. It’s some how, some way De-fucking-cember.

Fuuuuuck.

9 months in exile for a lot of us. We’ve been separated from friends and family. Maybe we’ve done the socially distant thing; maybe we haven’t. It’s sucked on a lot of levels and I honestly do miss seeing people I love.

So when this all started and we scrambled for any and all toilet paper, there were rumblings about yeast shortages. Yeast shortages! My god, what would I do without yeast, a product we used maybe once or twice a month? Obviously, I fell right into the trend of making my own sourdough starter because, by god, I would not fall victim to that shortage of sweet, sweet yeast.

It started with banana bread. Just a fun little project. Easy. I never liked baking. Hard feelings from high school chemistry made me avoid anything that involved mixing liquids and whatever, so I wasn’t willing to try that hard.

Until I was.

See, writing has not been an escape this year. I’ve been on sub with my agent. I’ve been writing with a purpose that provides with it quite a bit of stress (albeit entirely instigated by my own worrywart brain) and while purpose is nice, purpose is not a means of distraction or relief.

But for some fucking reason measuring ratios of specific flours and water and cheeses? Now that shit made me feel better.

I’ve been thinking about why for the last couple of months. Why the baking helps me. Why (and fuck it, I’m bragging) I seem to be so good at this. And I realized two things 1) this is just a natural extension of doing something I’ve always loved: feeding people (ask anyone who was a recipient of a Popeye’s biscuit in NOLA a few years back about that) and 2) baking gives me control.

Let’s dwell on the latter realization. Sure, there are mistakes to be made, but the formula is still very specific – water, flour, salt + kinetic energy + heat = bread.

The quality is what shifts but that formula can’t change. It can be improved on and expanded on, but the basic principle is the same. I think there’s comfort in that and I honestly think it’s kept me sane while I worked out my other stressors enough to finally begin feeling that little itch to edit and write again. Having control of something, even a little loaf of bread, has brought me comfort. More comfort than even eating it.

And now, obviously, I’ve found something I have passion for in tandem with my other passions. That feels really good and is a small bright spot over the last 9 months of black skies. The bonus: point 1 from before. I get to share this with others and bring a little comfort to them. It’s a similar feeling to sharing my writing but also far more intimate.

With the holidays approaching, I think we can all use a little more comfort.

Take care of you and yours.

This year’s been a fucking freakshow. I mean, forget about ALL of the stuff, it’s simply how time is moving. I look at the calendar widget on my desktop and it’s nearly October. Nearly a year ago, I was pushing ¡Pa’Que Tu Lo Sepas!, I was actively hunting for an agent, and I was plotting my 2020.

Obviously, all of our plans changed.

Still, even though things changed, it sort of stayed the same?

I’m plotting another anthology (more soon), hunting for a publisher with an awesome agent at my side, and I’m sort of plotting my 2021?

It’s difficult to believe there’s been any real traction this year. I haven’t written as much as I’d like. I went out on sub during a fucking pandemic. But there are bright sides too. I learned how to bake (for those of you following me on IG, I seem to be pretty good at it too), I’ve found a rhythm with working out again that isn’t all running focused, and I feel like becoming 40 brought it’s own little breakthroughs. I guess the opportunity was a chance for actual self exploration, not just bullshit ego stroking (which, hey, as a writer, I am AWESOME at).

There’s this feeling that I’m on the precipice of something – an unknowable something, but something nonetheless – that I can’t shake. And again, this is not a post about the burning world, I know it’s burning and that’s a whole other part of my brain dealing with that trauma, but the part of my brain that’s seemingly healing scars I didn’t know I had is working. And it’s working well? Maybe. Still not 100% on that just yet.

Trauma’s been on my mind. The broad ones and the tiny ones. How we heal and how we cope. How we find the will to stand up every day to face down our dragons. And the more I think about those things I find that I’m not as invested in answers anymore. I care, but that weird craving for epiphanies is dead. I’m finally understanding that life isn’t about realization for finality or closure. It’s simply about growth until that growth is simply no longer happening.

So I choose to grow. Like a weed. Like ivy on lattice. Where I end up is where I end up. Something in my way? Fuck it, let’s move past it or we’ll simply force our way forward.

Two months since I felt a need to blog. Feels like twenty fucking years, eh?

I hope everyone is doing well. I know it almost feels hollow to hear/read that since it’s a general and broad sentiment shared by maybe 98% of the population, but hey, I mean it.

Anyway, I don’t write things unless I have an intent and blogging is if anything, a soapbox, so I find myself with something to soapbox.

This, all of this? It was always broken. The systems, the infrastructure, the very essence of what we believe is a free society. All of it. Broken. People simply choose to ignore it in the hopes that it will go unnoticed; maybe even disappear.

Problem is, nothing broken goes away until you clean it up.

I understand we need hope, but I think the past three and a half years has at least opened many eyes to just how broken everything is and now with the realization that clean up might not be an overnight gig, some folks are retreating to the old ways–maintain eye contact to the horizon, keep walking, no looking down, etc.

That’s a problem.

I’ve found a lot of the fear that comes from the realization of level of effort is stemmed by trying to bring incremental improvement to my own life. And when I say incremental, I mean incremental.

I used to – ha, still do – have a worrying problem. Any decision that could possibly make ripples elsewhere, I break it down and try to imagine all the angles. I’ve realized it’s more a mix of fear and procrastination than it is actual caution, but it’s something that’s given me more agita than I ever really needed in life and was at one point in my life dulled by a little more chemical abuse.

Without that luxury, well, I sort of have to face things down.

And I realized what I was doing wrong when I broke my problems and decisions down: I always thought of myself last. I worked backwards and it was a really dumb way of breaking things down.

Now, I’m not a proponent of radical selfishness, but I do believe when we internalize we should start with us. We need to work from the inside out and while yes, duh, Angel, of course that’s how it should work; well, how often does it really work that way? How often do we make our decisions entirely around what others will think or based on what others could/would do for/to us? How often do we do this when we’re rarely on the minds of those we’re thinking of?

So why bother driving yourself insane? What good will that do to drive the improvement – to clean the mess that is you? Or do we use others as excuses to ignore our own shattered nonsense and are more willing to step on broken glass than we are to simply find the goddamn broom?

Not sure what the answer is there, but I think it starts with us. I think it starts with taking stock of ourselves, realizing what makes us happy, and being true to who we are. We’re surrounded by rubble but we have an opportunity to better ourselves in a way no generation has before. So why not give it a shot and why not do it on our own terms?

Shit, it’s not like anyone is literally next to us in the case it blows up in our faces.

Anyway, stay safe and healthy. Hope you’re all OK and finding ways to occupy yourselves and maybe make those incremental changes that help you to cope, breathe a little easier, and possibly improve things.

And if not? That’s fine too. Just holler if you need an ear.