Writing in Pandemic Times

I'm not going to lie, writing while the death toll is rising and people are getting violent over being asked to wear masks is hard. My work normally leans towards dystopian themes but this reality we are living in is too close to the way the horror in my stories start. 

I'm a hermit by nature and almost five years into isolated recovery from a near-death trauma. I don't mind the isolation (so far). But I keep thinking the same thing over and over again...

Science fiction is meant to be a cautionary tale, not a blueprint.

So watching the world unfold in the manner in which so many writers before me predicted humans would respond is more than a little disheartening and saddening.

I am currently isolating with my parents for a month, in a lake town closed for the season. Local people are still coming to the closed beach. I have been down there among them, hunting for fossils and beach glass, the only person in a mask. I was the only person in a mask among people shouting and spitting and laughing and I felt like I was living one of my own stories (and quickly broke through the crowd to go off to a more isolated stretch of shore).

I came back to work on a submission deadline and found it too sad to use that real-time experience as seasoning. I'm a sensitive person. I can imagine a great deal. But my joy in dystopian work comes from writing stories I think are real-enough but would never actually happen. I enjoy the What-If scenario when it isn't likely to occur.

I'm still writing, but my creations are more magical and modern right now. How can we change the world now to not-become-that? That kind of thing is living in my heart. How can we better the world with our crafts? Look at the numbers in which the world is turning to the Arts for relief. How can we tell tales but deliver a thread of hope?

Artists, keep making your art.

We have no idea how long this will last or what else will be asked of us. The flu of 1918 lasted two years. I'm watching the people at the park here being so careless with each other's lives that I am certain we have to be prepared for a marathon, not a sprint. The pure science behind how long it would take to get a vaccine that works out into the population tells that even that will take time. 

[But in the meantime, for a start, if people stopped littering the ground with their disposable masks, that would be great. Masks that might have virus on them. It's just health protocol. And we need to cut the strings when we're done. I've already seen birds with legs caught in them.]

We are our own heroes thrust onto an unwanted quest. Only we know if we will rise to meet it. 

[I'm just going to plug masks one more time. I'm chuckling as I write that but it is startling after isolating in solitude for three months to find myself in a crowd of people who are talking about this virus like it's not a big deal and won't touch them. Wear a mask to curb the spread. I think we're going to see the numbers go back up again. The flu of 1918 saw an increase that first fall season.]

May we all see the other side of this virus. 

Story Rejected. Wait? Not Rejected?

I received the best rejection yet this morning. A new story was rejected from an anthology and it was a long and sweet note. Buried at the bottom of that rejection was a request to include the story in an anthology for next year that hasn't even been listed yet.

Yes! Take my story.

Maybe a smarter writer would shop it around but I am still looking for homes for my stories where they are wanted as I know my writing style is not mainstream (or so say most of my beta readers).

So next year I already know I will have a new story out. It gives a little glow to how 2020 is panning out.

Last Minute Acceptance!

I got a phone call last night that due to some last minute change a one-act I submitted to KNOW Theatre's Playwrights and Artists Festival was going to be included in their line-up and produced as a stage reading! This is absolutely thrilling.

Retold Fairy Tale Anthology Release!

I'm very proud of this story. It was the first fiction story I finished years ago. It was rough and done before I had begun to hone my craft. The characters were so vivid to me that I understood I had not done them justice yet and I tucked it away.

It stayed with me over the years. When I pulled it out to take another go at it I could see where it needed to be tightened and trimmed and fleshed out. I breathed new life into it and then I sent it out.

Only two subs before 'The House on Blaubart Street" was accepted. And now it's in print with Immortal Works. I am a proud parent.

From the press information:
“Consider, amigo mío, that all stories begin with some grain of truth.”
“They’re no ordinary horses. They’re kelpies.”
“A strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her over the rail of the deck.”
“Cleanse the house on Blaubart Street.”

Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty aren’t the only fairy tales in the world, but they tend to steal most of the glory. It’s time to let others shine for a change. Sixteen talented authors each put their own spin on different fairy tales that you won’t find in animated films.

Trade your pining fair-haired princesses for fire fairies, conquistadors, plucky young men named Jack, and a fisherman’s daughter. You won’t see too many castles, but you’ll visit a haunted house, a mill, and a Russian bathhouse. This book also features not-so-wicked stepmothers, a hungry jackal, a black cat with a mysterious secret, and a ship full of pirates.

Move over, Cinderella. Make room for Mercedes.


Buy it from Immortal Works.
Buy it from Amazon.

New Anthology Release!

I have a story in this anthology with Anvil Press, a piece of creative non-fiction titled "When Something Awful Happened," about my interaction with death and how my accident changed my views.

This was a labor of love for Elee Kraljii Gardiner ad everyone involved could feel her dedication to creating a special collection that our world needed. Several of the other contributors died before publication. This anthology is amazing and has a lot to say that our culture doesn't talk about. This collection has a lot to teach us.

"Literary Nonfiction. Poetry. Essays. AGAINST DEATH is an anthology of creative non-fiction exploring the psychological shifts that occur when we prematurely or unexpectedly confront death. AGAINST DEATH is a natural outgrowth of the editor's experience of surviving a vertebral artery dissection and stroke and the subsequent writing of a long poem memoir about the event. To be "against" something can mean two different things at the same time. "Against" can mean pressed up close to something, yet it can also signify refusal. These texts deal with the affects of this proximity, taking into account any meaning of the word. Rather than showcase only extreme survival stories or difficult biological situations, the pieces in AGAINST DEATH consider the ways we make sense of death on a personal level and how we integrate that thinking as we continue forward. AGAINST DEATH articulates the personal experiences of each author's "near-deathness," utilizing fresh and inventive language to represent what "magical thinking" proposes. These pieces are incisive and articulate, avoiding the usual platitudes, feel-good bromides, and pep talks associated with near-death encounters. The writing moves past the sob story and confronts the tough circumstance of facing death with truth and compassion, no matter how ugly or (in)convenient."

Buy it from Anvil Press (Canada).
Buy it on Amazon.
Buy it at Barnes and Noble.

On the Other Side of Opioids

I posted over a year ago about getting back on my feet with writing after my accident. Soon after that post came the death of a dear friend, the death of my doctor, the loss of recovery services, and then new information about long-term opioid use.

I had thought that because I was taking less than half of the recommended daily dose that I was doing well. I discovered that I was still taking a significant dose. And I learned that a small percentage of patients were experiencing a sensitivity to it that created more physical pain instead of diffusing it.

I was in that category. And thinking I was experiencing more pain-- which I was-- led me to take more oxycodone. I was still under my daily allowance. But it didn't matter. I had been on oxy for three years and it only takes 7-9 days for a patient's body to become dependent upon it.

I may not have been addicted but I was dependent. And without a doctor. And scared.

It took me a while to find a doctor who would see me. I found one. No one wanted to take on a patient who was already taking a narcotic that was now being closely monitored and regulated. I was not treated kindly by everyone. I often felt like I had to point out what should have been obvious from my file-- I was burned badly. I almost lost my legs. I needed the pain meds.

I didn't want to need them.

I spent October through December weaning off them, cutting every dose in half for a few weeks and then cutting it in half again until I was taking the smallest sliver. I was told by my doctor to take those slivers and to call the office if I had any issues.

Which of course I did. Always at 3 a.m. when no one was in the office. And there were a few nights that my heart was swollen in my throat and racing so fast I thought I would die. 

The months that followed have been better and harder. My mind is clearer but physically there was some backsliding. So while I am ready for more mentally I can do less than I could. I was visiting with my mom recently and when I complained about my lack of energy, compared to last year she said something that stopped me cold.

That energy level was drug-induced.

So I'm aware now. I'm awake now. I have more pain than I hoped I would. But the stories are coming out. Editing takes too long still but I have learned to carve out the time I need to get deadlines met. I don't have the energy to write all night anymore. I have lost count have how many times I have fallen asleep mid-blink and wake with my hand on the mouse, hovering over a highlighted section. A couple of times I have discovered I deleted passages I meant to cut and paste.

I'm learning a new routine to make my artistic process possible for these new hands and this new body.

Speaking of new things, I have some things to look forward to, to keep encouraging forward momentum. I have a non-fiction story on my near-death moment coming out in five days in Against Death: 35 Essays on Living edited by Elee Kraljii Gardiner. And I have a supernatural urban fantasy story coming out in the anthology Of Fae and Fate in October.

Some of these hurdles have been hard enough to almost convince me that maybe one of the sacrifices of living was going to be my storytelling. I had to consider that maybe my post-trauma brain was different. And maybe it is. But the stories are there, more than just whispers of birdsong. 

I'm listening. And I'm ready. 

Lag Time

It’s been a while. Since my last post I have had two more Outpatient surgeries with a Carbon Scar Laser to breakdown the thicker scar tissue on my legs limiting my mobility. With that came two weeks of intense recovery, which included pain as well as exhaustion and mental fatigue from the anesthesia.

It made writing practically impossible. That was severely frustrating, coming after two years of trying desperately to regain my form, discipline, and momentum.

Then the day came where I found myself with no submissions out for publication consideration. No one was reading my work. And I panicked.

It’s hard enough, while in recovery, not to feel useless every time I have to set a story aside to be finished later, or let go of a submission deadline I could meet if I only didn’t do any of the self-care I need to do. It feels like failure.

If I want any kind of longevity my self-care has to come first. I know this. It doesn’t mean I don’t push at the edges of what that means to see how much more I can do as I heal.

So I spent two weeks in a half-haze discerning which submission calls were realistic to attempt time-wise. I sent a few out and then had to stop. The quality was lagging. I didn’t want to compromise my writing out of fear. But now there are subs still out, still being considered. Every day that goes by without a rejection is a blessed day.

And I’m starting to have the energy again to work.

Stories are forming from the warming days. Characters are climbing out of the birdsong and their histories poke through the cold earth. There will be time to recover and time to write.