Tag: writing

Deepest, Bluest

October 17th, 2022

I’ve got a book coming out!

You can preorder it HERE!

Why the hell am I not happier about it right now?

When my uncle died, I remember the turn out. The guy had a ton of friends. Lots of great stories about him too. Out of all that, though, the only refrain throughout the wake and burial was, “Man, he was a hard worker.”

A hard worker. That was his legacy. Not how much he loved music or how he could play almost anything by ear. Not how incredible of a conga player he was or how fucking gifted he was when he cooked a pork shoulder.

Nope. He was a hard worker.

My family drilled that into us. If you didn’t work, you weren’t worth shit. Working was the answer. Sick? Go work. Sad? Go work. Suffering from trauma due to your workaholic family dynamic and a malignant narcissist of a mother?

Go.

Work.

So here I am with finished work. I have accomplished. Achievement unlocked and all that.

I should go work, right?

I’m 42 years old and slowly learning that, no, I don’t have to be like a goddamn shark. I don’t have to keep swimming. Is there an astoundingly loud voice in my head screaming at me to not believe that? Yes. Do I listen to it? Not necessarily, but it does manage to make me a little sad.

And I should be proud. That hard work was fruitful. The only problem is that workaholic nonsense gets into the peanut butter of the very real issues I’ve had as Puerto Rican dude from the Bronx flitting around more “high scale” worlds, and I remember that in my chosen passion, folks like me rarely get shots. We have to make the ones we get count and we have to hustle to make sure we get them.

So, that leaves me with an achievement and nearly incapable of appreciating it fully because I’m vapor locked by this existential terror that not working means I’m a bad person. That I’m not doing enough to prove myself to people, who for lack of a better term, are completely imaginary.

The hardest part of writing, for me, is never the work. It’s letting go. It’s understanding that while done has many face, it still means the momentum is lost. Now, maybe that’s some kind of high for me. Maybe I’ve done way too much tying of my self worth to the process and not the outcome, I’m not sure.

What I do know is that there’s no use in burning myself out. There’s no use in ruining the ideas I scribble down for the sake of working.

And that’s sort of work in itself, right? Working to feel better. To do better for me. Easier said, but it’s possible. I’ve done a lot more with a lot more effort.

It takes time for everything to happen in this business. For the first ‘yes’ to land in your inbox. For the first sale. The first editorial note. All the way to that last copy edit. It’s all hurry up and wait.

That damn waiting, though. That’s the fucking mind killer.

Guess I’ve got a lot to work on.
Shorts Break

May 1st, 2022

I’m not entirely sure where my desire to write short fiction fell off a cliff, but one day it simply did.

I had a reading a week ago and I was all set to write something new for it…until I didn’t. It wasn’t for lack of an idea or energy. I just didn’t want to write a short story. The very idea was fucking repugnant. It made me grumpy, even slightly depressed. I mean, I was amped to do a reading and see peers I really missed over the past two and a half years, but I also didn’t want to write something short.

And it’s not that I’m averse to short stories. Still love reading them. Still love fanboying over writers who do so much with so few words.

I think I just don’t necessarily love writing shorts anymore.

I often wonder if the main reason is money or hubris. There’s simply no path to being paid what I believe I’m worth as a short story writer. There are plenty of publications and projects, but I’ve found the idea of writing for free or exposure to be incredibly regressive for me? But I feel guilty about that. Like I’m turning up my nose at something I still enjoy. At the same time, I’m not as thirsty for immediate validation of my writing anymore. I care that people enjoy what I put out and have actually paid (maniacs) for it, but I’m also not worried that I need to necessarily chase that dragon either. Is that hubris? I’m not sure.

The other reason might be better: I’m simply so much more comfortable with myself as a novelist. Hell, not just comfortable, I’m CONFIDENT. I don’t see the same obstacles I used to that once convinced me I didn’t have the chops to take a concept and carry it all the way to 80K+ words in a satisfying manner.

Maybe it is hubris. Who the fuck knows? That I’m overthinking this and literally feeling bad about not wanting to do a thing nobody is asking me to do is fucking weird and I know I’ll obsess about this for the next few weeks, so yay.

I used to get this really good envy whenever I read an excellent short story. This spark that made me say, “I can do that.” or “I think I can really enhance this aspect of the concept.” and while I still get inklings of that, I see myself thinking of the outline instead, of how to take these ideas and build them out to something sprawling. Sometimes it feels like my brain’s finally caught up with my mouth, to be honest.

Just thoughts on where I’ve been lately with writing. And it should be said: these are my experiences. There are plenty of folks killing it on the short fic scene in incredible ways I couldn’t touch for all their own valid reasons.

I just think I need a break.
The Unbearable Volume of Silence

March 21st, 2022

I published nothing last year and I have yet to publish anything this year.

A few years back, this would have freaked me out. The sky would have been falling in chunks. That I wasn’t writing something, ANYTHING would have been a crime. A means of punishment because I couldn’t imagine not being published once I finally overcame the obstacles on my path to getting that very first credit.

But a few things happened. I dropped my agent. Got picked up by a new one. I went on query right when a goddamn pandemic reared its head and sent us all into a fucking spiral of insanity that continues.

I got a little more perspective.

A lesson I learned from pandemic is to shed the fear of doing the things I want. That isn’t to say that I’m going to speed run life, in fact, it’s the opposite. I realized a lot of my short writing and need to publish were entirely rooted in the very real fear of focusing my efforts on long form – an obviously longer game. I was horrified of that wait. Of not filling the space with validation because if that validation disappeared, then I wasn’t worth anything as a writer.

Which was bullshit.

I’m a good writer. I’m trying to be a great writer. I’m doing the extra stupid thing to achieve that on my terms, without sacrificing my voice or my identity in order to get to where I want to be. The problem is that takes time. My speed doesn’t help (I’m sitting on four books as of right now and started outlining a fifth), but I’m learning to deal with the silence; to allow myself to disappear because I’m doing the work.

At first, I was worried that lack of me would hurt me – especially when it came to networking. Thankfully, pandemic alleviated some of those concerns, but now we’re pretending things are over and here comes all the events that a person has to participate in to be taken seriously. While I miss the folks I’ve forged meaningful relationships with, I also don’t miss the infinite internal eye rolling that comes with a lot of these events. I’m not unique in this, especially among writers, but I ain’t a joiner.

So, the silence has become a lot more attractive. I like putting my head down and putting in the work. I won’t lie, I do miss writing short fiction, but looking at the state of things, I don’t see a place for me in that world at the time. I’m proud of what’s come before, but all this time I know I’ve grown as a writer and I’m so very excited to show folks what’s coming.
No Golden Path

April 30th, 2019

Writing’s been good for and to me. It’s helped me with personal issues, made me feel seen in many ways, and has granted me the privilege of making friends I really care about and that I hope care about me.

It’s also opened my eyes to some deeply fucked up racism that had always felt abstract.

I’ve been called a spic and other gross, ignorant shit before. Some of it hateful and almost all of it based on fear and stupidity – ground floor white supremacy (the kind that gives dumb people the warm and fuzzies enough to prevent them from eating the rich).

Something’s made my ears perk up today, though. These recent scrotum twisting screams from the establishment whenever Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez opens her mouth made me key in on something. And this something isn’t entirely unique to the Puerto Rican experience, but it hits home for me being a Puerto Rican from a neighborhood (AOC’s at that, which is all we have in common) already stigmatized without including its ethnic makeup.

Plainly: these people see us as savages. As a complete and utter lessers. Violent action or rhetoric would imply we’re on equal footing and you’re desperately scratching for an immediate solution to a threat. This? The push to make people like AOC ‘know their place’? This is something else. I’m meant to be reminded that even as a fourth generation DESCENDANT of a group forcefully participated into western civilization, that I somehow could never earn the respect that would garner me the simple ability to say, “Hey, that’s pretty fucked up. We shouldn’t let that continue.”

To put it into a more understandable form for some folks: I’m not worthy of talking to anyone’s manager – solely because my lineage is one defiled (not a typo) by colonialism and slavery. Ironically punished for the simple sin of my forefathers engaging ‘thoughtfully’ with those whose sole purpose was exploitation at best and genocide as an endgame.

And you wonder why marginalized people are waking up to the bullshit line about debating or thoughtful engagement? We’re being invited to that fucking dance again – why the hell would the response be anything BUT angry.

I’m avoiding the more over-used term “mad” – a word meant for those more than angry and veering into mental illness. A word used to invalidate our anger and make us come off as ineloquent or incapable of making a rational argument.

The rational argument requires anger. It requires an emotional response. Our societal problems have real consequences for people and to live a life where you can’t see that is the ultimate privilege.

When I started writing, I did not step into this pool with the intention of calling out bullshit. I did not decide I’d call out scum for being scum. I wanted to succeed and build a readership or a platform. I wanted validation that this gift I have for storytelling (and hey, YMMV on what you think of my stories, that’s fine) is worth pursuing as a career. I wasn’t interested in talking diversity or in being anything else but a writer.

Shit, I have no delusions that my vocalizing makes me in any way noble. Speaking about an observation isn’t fucking special. Acting on it? Maybe – depends on your intentions. Do I become invested in making sure POC and marginalized writers rise with me? Or do I go the easier route and use wokeness as a marketing tactic? Do I lean on allies? Do I wait for them to do something first, even though they owe me nothing? Do I place myself in the position where someone else knows where the keystone is on my flimsy platform?

I’d argue I’m not alone in these sentiments. All of those above choices suck. Nobody walks into a room wanting to talk about miserable things like that, but…

Then you end up in a room and nobody is saying anything about the problem. You end up in a room and you can’t help but feel a little like a sideshow attraction – your purpose to perform as you are told and to provide others the benefit of your pain or your culture without ever providing the full context of what makes you human. Because once you’re human, it’s no longer easy for them to cast aside your arguments and your criticism with such ease (I mean, they’ll still do it, but now they need to look like complete fucking doorjambs, so that’s a small win).

Those experiences aren’t the norm, but they’re still difficult and have a habit of staying with you far longer than the good ones. That’s what mental trauma is, right? Riding a wave of awfulness that you sometimes can’t outrun. We either navigate it as best we can or let it swallow us whole.

To paraphrase something I heard recently: I want a seat at the table because I refuse to be on the goddamn menu anymore. I must shed the fear instilled in me to say something – especially if all I’m hurting are egos and the institution built on the backs of people who came before me. People who had absolutely no ability to ever vocalize what they saw as wrong for fear of literal bodily harm. Maybe in sounding out, I’m doing the right thing – the thing they always wanted me to be able to do.
On Brand

April 25th, 2019

Disclaimer: There are a LOT of you out there that I consider to be good or even great people (and writers). I know opinions vary and I also know writing as a business sucks. I try to be as honest as I can with people and I try to avoid subtweeting or being vague in favor of outright saying names of those I have a problem with. So notice: I will only say one name here because THAT is where my grievance lies. Go read.

Oof – more publishing world drama. Yes, I also realize I don’t have to say a fucking thing, but shutting the fuck up seems to be exactly what the shit heels want, so I’m going to have to go against the grain (I think that might be my brand: loudmouth Puerto Rican guy that people wish shut up without internalizing why they want me to shut up when other people will say the same shit while whiter and never evoke that same response? Is that how this works? Or is that my platform? I need a fucking publicist.).

Otto Penzler had a party this week. More likely to show all his evil critics how happy he is and how many supporters he has. That’s cool. Sometimes we all need to boost our egos and mental health is important, even if you have disdain for other humans simply because they may be a different sex, color, or orientation than you are. You do you, my dude.

I’m not going to stray on that or the idea that every single person that would attend that party is a villain. I’ve gone to great lengths for free beer myself, so I can dig free shit being the only motivator for a writer to be at the shindig. I can also imagine plenty of guests being unaware of recent controversy and well, I do like to think the best of people. I really believe there are more allies in this business than not – even if it doesn’t feel that way all the time.

Oh that’s right, yes, background for those not in the know. Remember this? MANY news cycles ago…

*checks notes*

Oh, four months ago. Well, anyway. THAT happened, but what does it mean for those present at said ‘party that absolutely no MWA people were invited to that totally MWA people went to’?

Nothing. Doesn’t mean a damn thing.

My gripe is with Otto. Whatever warm bodies surrounding him as meat shields, if they’re just standing there, are not my problem until they flap their gums or work as diligently to belittle their marginalized peers in public.

That also means I will absolutely walk into that bookshop whenever the fuck I want – especially knowing the owner would rather I not even be there. It’s literally the only game in town for our genre and I do believe the staff tries their very best to boost new voices despite their boss’ utterly ignorant contempt for anyone who won’t kiss his ring.

Party crashing is cooler either way.

And I will crash the party because that has been the only goddamn choice I’ve had since I’ve decided to take writing seriously. I’m sure the other *checks notes again* 25 (Jesus, 25? Seriously, guys?) Latinx crime writers can agree with me. Wait, I think one is dead, 24 then.

But Angel, a voice that I hope is not in my head says, the only choice is to boycott! We must take action in the same way that popular culture conveys since that isn’t a reflection at all of the real winners of the civil rights movement rewriting the narrative of how anything happened back in the 1960’s!

Eh…maybe? Sometimes we need to play the game with their rules because their rules can fuck them right back. Parasites aren’t long term planners, so if you can find a means to exploit that, it can be the best path.

I appreciate that sentiment from allies and there are places where boycotts work but books aren’t buses. It’s a niche world no matter how hard we want to pretend it isn’t and if there’s a physical store that will carry books by excellent writers who also happen to be marginalized or allies, I need to support that. I need to support the shift of cash flow because if that cash flow remains the same then you’ll never dethrone anyone.

That said, I will never apologize for my anger. This choad denigrated two excellent writers who work tirelessly to promote diversity in fiction and shat on ‘the mob’ who fill his coffers. In a perfect world we would absolutely shut it all down. In a world where his staff wouldn’t end up unemployed or the only decent bookshop south of the Upper West Side disappeared? This would end like a movie. We would be the champions, my friend. One of us would magically inherit the property and build the PERFECT bookstore and all kindles would explode in multi-color confetti and books would be the only source of currency for EVERYONE.

I would also buy a unicorn named Greg. He will fart carrot cake muffins and piss the very finest of Bissell Brothers beer and I will finally be happy.

Anyway.

None of that will happen and that’s OK. Despite what anyone thinks or what their motivations are, the real story here is that marginalized writers aren’t going anywhere. The numbers are growing, and the money will start flowing to where it wants. The real problem people like Otto should worry about (and frankly, why all folks like this are circling the wagons) is what happens when that paradigm change shatters their world and they’re left with nobody willing to take the free booze.

Therefore, I never give away booze. I like to know who loves and hates me from the jump.

Anyway, I have a book out that you should buy, read, and review. It’s called HELL CHOSE ME and shocker: it’s a crime fiction novel with a complicated character going through a literary-level existential crisis with a little bit of Clive Barker sensibility tossed in.

In other words: it’s awesome.

While you’re at it, buy Steph Cha’s and Attica Locke’s books too. They are even more awesome than I could ever hope to be. I sincerely mean that.

Tag: writing

Deepest, Bluest

Shorts Break

The Unbearable Volume of Silence

No Golden Path

On Brand