Get Dystopia Utopia Here!

It's been a week... I got a rejection. A submission got bumped up to the next tier- one step closer to a yes. And I just sent a new story in. Then there was an e-mail telling me that the last story I had accepted, "The Keepers of Madleen," was just published!

Check out the book at Flame Tree Publishing with this link!

Hitting a Milestone & Receiving Professional Payment

The current professional payment rate in the writing world is .06 a word. So if I write a story that runs 5500 words and then sell it to a publisher at a professional rate, I receive $330 for that story.

When I started sending my stories out, my main hope was to get published, to see my work in print. I didn't have any lofty aspirations besides, please, somebody-who-doesn't-know-me like my story well enough to want to print it. After enough rejections, finding out that you *almost* made it actually makes you happy rather than upset. After months of hearing that you almost made it, it no longer feels as good. That's when you start wondering what's missing from your stories that you can't get grabbed up.

You're always working at being a better artist.

A lot of editors and publishers are also trying to build up their businesses and aren't at a place yet to pay pro-rates, though they wish they could. I have submitted to calls offering .01-.02 cents a word, where that same $330 story would net me $110. And I submitted, because it's still $100 more than what I have in my pocket.

I sold a $287 story for exposure, because it was the first place I had no connections with that read my story and wanted to print it. I sold a $59 story for $10 because at some point, any money is more than the not-money you currently have. I actually sold a $350 story for $30 recently, because I've been shopping it around for three years and someone finally wanted it and I realized that, more than money, I wanted to see that story find a home

A lot of artists struggle with this. After all, if you spend a week on a story, writing, editing, polishing it, that's seven days of electricity, seven days of three meals per that you're hoping to recoup the loss of. Exposure doesn't put food in your belly.

But we do it, if the project is right. We do it because we're working towards being good enough to earn a pro rate.

I finally have, and it's for a story I am extremely proud of, a world I want to explore more of, and a character I want to visit with again. Check out "The Keepers of Madleen."

On Being Called a Feminist Writer

The story I sold for my first pro-rate is a favorite of mine. I used a slew of beta-readers for it and many of them gave me the same notes. They thought it would be an easier sell if the main character was not elderly and not a woman. 

But they liked the world I built.

I've heard it before, that I am obviously a feminist writer, as if it is something I am attempting to achieve and be. All I do is write the worlds I know.

I had one publisher rejection that told me a story without a male lead was a hard sell, but a story with no predominant male characters was "unrealistic" and the thought of a story with no men in it was just a waste of my time and energy. He really did like my writing, he assured me, but that was a glaring error. (After his notes I was grateful he passed on my story.)

I grew up in a working class neighborhood where all but one father worked days, so that my daily world was peppered with women as the authority figures. (As a child I thought teachers were women and principals were men.)

I write what I know. Strong women, indecisive women, lost women, and sometimes there are men in their lives.

Maybe that makes me a feminist writer. The business is what it is but it makes me sad that there's a separate literary category to represent a world population that's predominantly female. To me, that's what should be mainstream. That's the reality.

It Never Hurts to Ask, aka Another Story Sold!

In July I stumbled upon a submission that I thought was a perfect match for one of my most treasured stories, but my story was over 500 words over their limit. I moved on, but there was this niggling feeling in my gut that maybe I should message them and ask if they would still consider it.

That's a worrying thing as a young writer-in-the-business. You don't know what questions are bothersome. You don't know if it's something that will expose your naivete, and whether or not that will red flag you with the editors and publishers you're trying to work with.

I was raised with the idea that it never hurts to ask. As a child, I learned quickly that it's not necessarily true, but I like to believe the best of the world. So I queried the editor, hoping it would be a fruitful quest. I was promptly assured that all submissions were given consideration and encouraged to send it along.

I understood. Everything would be weighed the same, but if it was over, it would have to be good. And I was surprised/relieved to discover that I had complete faith in my story. Maybe it wouldn;t end up being a good fit, but it was a good story. Even a great one.


It was good that I listened to my gut, because the editors liked my story and are going to include it in their anthology!! They did ask for some confidentiality while they send out the non-acceptance letters, which I respect and admire, but I will post more information as it becomes available.

They're hoping for a Fall 2016 publication, so you don't have long to wait!

First Story Post-Accident Finds a Home!

One of my earliest stories has found a home in a new anthology! I am very excited to be working with CBAY Books again! I will post more information as soon as I can share it.

My heart is overjoyed to have sold a story at what is the halfway point of my year of recovery. I couldn't have hoped I would be back on this path so soon. I dreamed it, and today is proof that dreams come true. I was so worried about losing momentum in the face of my accident.

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.