The Fingers Work!

For the last two months, I have been working more steadily, using it as a form of Occupational Therapy for my still-healing hands. The worst damage to my hands was my right index finger, and the meaty spot between that and the thumb. It was an open hole that required a skin graft (before that, I could see the bones of my right index finger).

Each week I can work longer before I need to stop and stretch my hands out. I still make myself write out my notes by hand. I think from the outside, my handwriting looks fine, but it's not quite where it used to be. I am working my way back towards my sloping, beautiful cursive.

I have to be honest though... those first days in the hospital ICU, I was afraid I would never be able to use my hand again. So I have gratitude for how much I *can* use it, and everything else that comes will be an added bonus.

Still, there's a truth to the notion that you don't know what you really care about until you almost lose it. The things that I love flipped through my heart, and I spent one night, unbeknownst to me until months later, regaling my hospital appointed babysitter- I had taken a nosedive out of bed high on the coma drugs- with all the stories I still had in me that I wanted to write. She told me I said it was what I needed to live for.

"I'm not done yet," I said. Nothing else has been more true.

It Only Takes a Moment

Altar by my friend Rahdne, sending prayers for my healing.

Well, I didn't see that coming.

Halloween night, I had four published anthologies on my shelf with stories I wrote in them, two more acceptance letters for other anthologies, and a string of submissions out. I had finally found my momentum after two years of hard work. The rhythm of my work felt right and I was excited about what the next year would offer.

By midnight that night, I was being airlifted to Syracuse Upstate Hospital's burn unit. It was a freak no-fault accident. I had multiple graft surgeries to harvest and replace skin to my damaged legs and hand. I was transferred to rehab to relearn things like walking and washing myself.

I spent Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years in the care of an amazing group of doctors and nurses. I mostly kept my chin up, looking ahead to what needed to happen next, and then next, and then next, so that I could go home. And I did. Which is a larger story that will be told.

I'm still in recovery. I have physical therapy to work my knee flex, so that I can do normal things like climb stairs, step over obstacles, and step into my tub. My grafts are healing well, but it will still be a year, they say, before this part of this journey is done.

I am grateful for my life. For the health I have, and for the care I need to get better.

But my heart hurts. Every day feels like another week off-track. I feel like all the momentum I built up with my writing is slipping away. It's just a feeling, just a worry. I am a writer. It's what I know and what I do and every day I can feel my healing fingers itching to type away. The damage to my right hand was serious enough that writing more than a couple hours a day is still difficult. So I've been taking notes and organizing projects and letting go of the stories I was working on whose submission deadlines have past.

There will be stories from me. That will never be a problem. For the time being, my personal story is the one that needs my attention. Healing muscles and tissue first. Working words and fingers second.

Review for One Thousand Words for War!

I had a wonderful experience working with CBAY books- they were very understanding of my limitations in correspondence from my hospital bed. For this YA anthology, I wrote a short called "Jar of Pickles" in a style called kishōtenketsu, which is a story without a Western conflict.

One of the toughest review publications has looked at the anthology and here is what they say.

Kirkus Reviews the newest anthology I am included in!

But don't take their word for it. Check it out for yourselves!

Valentine Release for Fracture!

This is the trailer for the newest anthology I am part of called Fracture: Essays, Poems, and Stories on Fracking in America. My story "Fire on the Mountain" is included in this book, a dystopian look at a future world after fracking.

I am so proud of this anthology, and thrilled to share the cover with such a list of writers, essayists, and poets, including one of my all time favorites, Derek Jensen! Please enjoy the trailer, and look for the book from Ice Cube Press this Valentine's Day.

Is There a World Outside My Computer?

I have been working on five stories this month, all due in four days. I'm in good shape. I have the next three days heavily scheduled out with a current schedule that affords me time to immerse myself in my worlds and still be present in my home- although my cat Mara might disagree. She has been denied lap more times than she feels is justified.

It was hard to get disciplined, but easy to stay that way. I have found my groove. I worried I wouldn't, but chased it anyway. If I get all my submissions done by Friday, I'll actually be able to enjoy my holiday weekend.

My (Current) Creative Process

Sometimes this happens over weeks, sometimes days, and in the worst times, over one weekend. When you ride the creative waves of inspiration, sometimes they are elusive and other times they sweep you up and carry you with them. So when the waves stop, and you are stranded in an unknown sea, and the direction is unclear, it’s a good time to evaluate your faith in yourself.

For the moment, my process seems to be pretty consistent. Shared with intended humor, though it's still true, this is how each story is born:

• So, I have this idea…
• I think my idea is pretty good.
• This is a pretty good story.
• This is going awesome!
• Huh.
• This is tricky.
• I can’t figure it out.
• Fucking-a.
• (This is where I try to distract my brain with stupid logic puzzle games.)
• Okay. I need to babble at you about a story you don’t know anything about. But please don’t ask me any questions yet or you’ll derail my train of thought.  I just need you to let me babble.
• I hit a wall and it’s a thick wall.
• I’m going to moan about it and say I need to take a break but I’m not going to take a break. Instead I’m going to work on this one sentence for the next 5 hours.
• This is crap. THIS SUCKS! I don’t even remember where it was going!
• I’m going to ask you what you think, but everything you say will be wrong. Sorry in advance.
• I don’t want to hear you say that I’m a good writer and I can do this. Stop encouraging my failure!
• I suck. This was a horrible idea. Everything I write is lame. What was I thinking?!
• The universe is lame. I can’t write. I can’t be a writer.  I want to die.
• I should just work at Crawl-mart…
• …but I can’t imagine doing anything other than writing.
• (Deep breaths.)
• I just need you to tell me I’m a good writer. Tell me I can do this.
• I need to look at my story with new eyes.
• Okay, a lot of it doesn’t suck.
• OH! OMG! I figured it out!
• (Insert usual unhappiness that I had to cut something/someone I cared about to make it work. At least I accept it as part of the journey. Fighting it only insures a broken story.)
• That was so easy to fix.
• I think this is a good story.
• I wrote a really good story.
• Writing is awesome. 

Oaths and Statistics

You have to get your feet wet.

A little over a year ago, I made a public statement on land sacred to me, that I was going to take a leap of faith, believe in myself, and send my writing out regularly. I am happy to look back at that moment and be able to say that I did it. There were a few months where there were lulls in submissions calls, but during those times I kept working on the next story, never ceasing to string words together. I built worlds.

In the last year, I wrote and edited over a dozen stories, of varying lengths. I sent them out into the world and received a passel of rejections, which indoctrinates me into the Every Writer Club. You know what helped with that? I shared my favorite rejection form letters with other writer friends. It’s not personal. Most of the time, you are one of hundreds of writers vying for a dozen spots.

But, in that same year, four of my stories were accepted!

I still doubt myself and my words. It comes with being an artist. But I have a trust now that I didn’t have before I opened myself to accepting rejection into my creative process. I trust that each story that doesn’t hit the mark is a learning experience to make the next story, or rewrite, better. And I trust that a rejection doesn’t mean my story is bad, but that it simply hasn’t found the right home yet.

As a writer, you are creator, nurturer, adoption manager, and undertaker. I have new goals this year, and prayers that my computer can hold out until I get paid enough for a story to replace it. Wherever you are in your own process, may your time be fruitful and productive.

Happy Hunting!