Quickly because I'm exhausted.
My latest adventures in sleep aids/trying to actually sleep are not going well at all.
This means I am extra special crazypants.
I have new fiction up at Amaranthine Muses. http://amaranthinemuses.wordpress.com/2011/03/31/the-girl-i-met Tiny strange love story.
Um. I've been toying with a little horror.
I'm picking at a thing about a lil Black girl in the ghetto and how she does not belong to this world or this worlds things but to the world of the Warg.
Not sure if it will be more werewolfy or more elemental in nature.
Uh.
I'm really hoping my Oshun story has in fact made it to an editor to be read. I also hope that the editor who reads it either knows who Oshun is or can use the googles.
Shit I'm tired.
My current stats from Duotrope.
Pending responses for last 12 months: 7
Submissions sent last 12 months: 31
Submissions sent this month: 10
Acceptance ratio for the past 12 months: 36.00 %
Congratulations! Your overall acceptance ratio is higher than the average for users who have submitted to the same markets.
I'm feeling fairly fancy about that.
I'm tentatively looking at literary things to do here in Seatown. My schedule+the household ailments lately make these plans kind of difficult. BUT I have a laptop now (Cookie gave me her old one for the Christmas. Her name is Petunia and she needs stickers) so I could in theory go places and write things.
Okay.
So yeah. SO tired. Sore. Crazy. But productive under the cut a bit from the blues flavored retelling of the song Fancy. I'm completely rewriting it so there's a lot of it under the cut.
Oh wait one more thing. Best rejection lately as proof the editor did not read my piece. Essay rejected for not having clearly queer content. Third paragraph starts out with me talking about my first sight of a girl named Elaine's pussy. Totes not queer right?
I laughed.
When I was a little girl I remember my Grandmother would put one of her soft sweet smelling slips on me on hot days. Her apartment sun baked all day, after our naps we would make dinner together in our slips. I remember putting my small hands on the wide soft spread of her butt, she wiggled her hips and made me laugh.
I called her Mama back then because I didn't know any better.
"Mama, sing me. Sing me mama."
Mama taught me all her moves. The little hip bump, the shoulder shimmy, how to hold a note while giving The Look. She called it the killing 'em look.
"There you go, dip your shoulder baby and kill ‘em with your eyes."
Remembering makes me smile while I'm putting on my make up. I can even still feel her fingers on my shoulders, her shadow overtook mine on the floor and I felt so safe.
Mama and I spent all our time together. My real parents had both absconded in their special ways. My Father is still in prison, from what I have gathered over the years there was a love triangle and someone died, my Father went to prison and my Mother disappeared. In effect I suppose I'm an orphan.
I discovered I could sing when I was about thirteen, Mama was ill by then and I had taken over most of the household duties. I wore one of her slips and stood in the kitchen with the mop belting Mama's favorite Nina Simone song hoping to make her smile.
Oh, how she smiled. She clapped and walked into the kitchen,
"Listen to you, baby girl you got a voice. Gave me shivers."
That became our new routine. Mama couldn't shimmy anymore and would instead sit in a chair, tapping her feet and hurling requests at me. That summer the slips really fit. I was just barely 14 and already I looked like a woman. There were men, of course there were men. Dirty leering men who sucked their teeth at me, who asked me if I wanted a ride or a date.
This means I am extra special crazypants.
I have new fiction up at Amaranthine Muses. http://amaranthinemuses.wordpress.com/2011/03/31/the-girl-i-met Tiny strange love story.
Um. I've been toying with a little horror.
I'm picking at a thing about a lil Black girl in the ghetto and how she does not belong to this world or this worlds things but to the world of the Warg.
Not sure if it will be more werewolfy or more elemental in nature.
Uh.
I'm really hoping my Oshun story has in fact made it to an editor to be read. I also hope that the editor who reads it either knows who Oshun is or can use the googles.
Shit I'm tired.
My current stats from Duotrope.
Pending responses for last 12 months: 7
Submissions sent last 12 months: 31
Submissions sent this month: 10
Acceptance ratio for the past 12 months: 36.00 %
Congratulations! Your overall acceptance ratio is higher than the average for users who have submitted to the same markets.
I'm feeling fairly fancy about that.
I'm tentatively looking at literary things to do here in Seatown. My schedule+the household ailments lately make these plans kind of difficult. BUT I have a laptop now (Cookie gave me her old one for the Christmas. Her name is Petunia and she needs stickers) so I could in theory go places and write things.
Okay.
So yeah. SO tired. Sore. Crazy. But productive under the cut a bit from the blues flavored retelling of the song Fancy. I'm completely rewriting it so there's a lot of it under the cut.
Oh wait one more thing. Best rejection lately as proof the editor did not read my piece. Essay rejected for not having clearly queer content. Third paragraph starts out with me talking about my first sight of a girl named Elaine's pussy. Totes not queer right?
I laughed.
When I was a little girl I remember my Grandmother would put one of her soft sweet smelling slips on me on hot days. Her apartment sun baked all day, after our naps we would make dinner together in our slips. I remember putting my small hands on the wide soft spread of her butt, she wiggled her hips and made me laugh.
I called her Mama back then because I didn't know any better.
"Mama, sing me. Sing me mama."
Mama taught me all her moves. The little hip bump, the shoulder shimmy, how to hold a note while giving The Look. She called it the killing 'em look.
"There you go, dip your shoulder baby and kill ‘em with your eyes."
Remembering makes me smile while I'm putting on my make up. I can even still feel her fingers on my shoulders, her shadow overtook mine on the floor and I felt so safe.
Mama and I spent all our time together. My real parents had both absconded in their special ways. My Father is still in prison, from what I have gathered over the years there was a love triangle and someone died, my Father went to prison and my Mother disappeared. In effect I suppose I'm an orphan.
I discovered I could sing when I was about thirteen, Mama was ill by then and I had taken over most of the household duties. I wore one of her slips and stood in the kitchen with the mop belting Mama's favorite Nina Simone song hoping to make her smile.
Oh, how she smiled. She clapped and walked into the kitchen,
"Listen to you, baby girl you got a voice. Gave me shivers."
That became our new routine. Mama couldn't shimmy anymore and would instead sit in a chair, tapping her feet and hurling requests at me. That summer the slips really fit. I was just barely 14 and already I looked like a woman. There were men, of course there were men. Dirty leering men who sucked their teeth at me, who asked me if I wanted a ride or a date.