it's time you had the talk
So, it turns out that the hardest part of writing the bullshit canlit short fiction that I was brainwashed into in undergrad is not having anyone to share the results with. I miss you fucking guys. Honest to god. I know everyone has different feelings/rules/etiquette/hang-ups about the whole comment thing for stories, and that it is a ~~sensitive topic~ and has been for a decade, but I'll be honest: the manic fucking thrill I got after posting stories (small fandom stories, weird pairing stories, big bangs with guaranteed readership) was based entirely on the fact that random strangers would be guaranteed to show up and capslock/exclamation point at me about what I'd produced. And there is no better goddamn feeling than that.
I can be honest with myself: it's why I write. I started in fandom in high school doing play-by-email RPGs, (or, before that: middle school notebook back-and-forth with burnthemap and fortuna_major) and I still think that that kind of totally wanky, unreadable product is my ideal medium. I hate the isolation of writing. I crave approval. Or acknowledgment. Or anything. I am a good product of the Canadian public school system: without authority's blessing, I feel nigh on worthless. Alas, cohabiting with a teacher doesn't do as much for that kink as I might hope.
Right now, I don't have much. I am producing way more original shit than I have ever - yep, ok, ever - produced before, and I don't fucking know what to do with it. Probably that shouldn't even be on my mind. But I have this list of stories now, and I've submitted to a couple of contests, and have a few more coming up that I'll be doing as well (it's a cheap thrill, a workable deadline, and you get some nice subscriptions out of it) and soon I'll have to start submitting to obscure Canadian litmags that no one reads, because that's the process in this country, you know, and ... blerg. I still don't even know if what I'm producing here is a 3 or a 5 on the scale of Shit Town Disaster to Publishable Given Lack Of Better Options. Augh.
I certainly feel grateful that this sojourn out to the wilds of the ultracity megalopolis has kickstarted my creative drive again - in a way that I couldn't even have hoped for five weeks ago, tbqh - but I also am really feeling the lack of community. I keep sending out tentative feelers to acquaintances and old friends I kinda know as writers, or used to know, and I have my eye on some structured groups, but. Like. Why don't I have any RL writer friends? What the fuck is with that? Why was I so dumb for so long that I'm now years behind my peers, who all have book deals? Seriously, I know four five people with book deals from undergrad. It's. Yeah.
It's a weird position to be in. My goal is to find some people who'd read my shit and would, you know, care more about the text than me. Which means this whole post is just me complaining about how lucky I am to have a bunch of people who care too much about me and tolerate my shitty writing for the sake of our relationship.
Sooo, to sum up:
Next post: Halifax. Wherein I have crushes on ALL THE NAKED BANDS, but keep my dignity intact. Mostly. Twitter DMs notwithstanding.
I can be honest with myself: it's why I write. I started in fandom in high school doing play-by-email RPGs, (or, before that: middle school notebook back-and-forth with burnthemap and fortuna_major) and I still think that that kind of totally wanky, unreadable product is my ideal medium. I hate the isolation of writing. I crave approval. Or acknowledgment. Or anything. I am a good product of the Canadian public school system: without authority's blessing, I feel nigh on worthless. Alas, cohabiting with a teacher doesn't do as much for that kink as I might hope.
Right now, I don't have much. I am producing way more original shit than I have ever - yep, ok, ever - produced before, and I don't fucking know what to do with it. Probably that shouldn't even be on my mind. But I have this list of stories now, and I've submitted to a couple of contests, and have a few more coming up that I'll be doing as well (it's a cheap thrill, a workable deadline, and you get some nice subscriptions out of it) and soon I'll have to start submitting to obscure Canadian litmags that no one reads, because that's the process in this country, you know, and ... blerg. I still don't even know if what I'm producing here is a 3 or a 5 on the scale of Shit Town Disaster to Publishable Given Lack Of Better Options. Augh.
I certainly feel grateful that this sojourn out to the wilds of the ultracity megalopolis has kickstarted my creative drive again - in a way that I couldn't even have hoped for five weeks ago, tbqh - but I also am really feeling the lack of community. I keep sending out tentative feelers to acquaintances and old friends I kinda know as writers, or used to know, and I have my eye on some structured groups, but. Like. Why don't I have any RL writer friends? What the fuck is with that? Why was I so dumb for so long that I'm now years behind my peers, who all have book deals? Seriously, I know four five people with book deals from undergrad. It's. Yeah.
It's a weird position to be in. My goal is to find some people who'd read my shit and would, you know, care more about the text than me. Which means this whole post is just me complaining about how lucky I am to have a bunch of people who care too much about me and tolerate my shitty writing for the sake of our relationship.
Sooo, to sum up:
- first world problems
- can't wait for Yuletide
- considering Nanowrimo (1700 wpd = 10-15 middling to crap short stories, w/moar genre)
- Arrested Development: I want all the Gob Bluth/hooker stories. Where are they?
Next post: Halifax. Wherein I have crushes on ALL THE NAKED BANDS, but keep my dignity intact. Mostly. Twitter DMs notwithstanding.