Burn Bitter

God’s name used to be honey. Thick. Sweet. A taste that settled heavenly on your tongue and pleased you to speak. You served ever grateful, just for the sip of his name as it uttered from your lips.

Now, it’s a tar. Too bitter – it puckers at your lips. The sludge of it clings and clogs in your throat, bubbles up when you try to speak. One little word, once a sweet balm within your mouth leaves acrid little ulcers along your tongue and spews out like bile to burn cracked lips.

Yet as you lay at Hell’s floor, looking up, up, towards that which you forsook, you speak it still. The agony of it burns just as the deathly aching cold of Hell burns. Will the bitter break and bring sweet succor back to you? You hope it does. You pray it, even if your prayers echo hollowly around you and there’s no one there to care, let alone to answer.

God… God…

He can’t hear you.

God… God…

And your gums melt away each time you say it.

Scorch

You think, when you Fall, that Hell will be a pyre in which your damned and rotten soul will burn. You anticipate the lick of flames against your flesh, searing the skin and then sizzling the fat, scorching the meat before it chars and cracks your bones to coals. You await the embrace of the flame. You want it, need to taste the ash in your mouth and savor how it suffocates you.

For a lifetime.

For eternity.

You Fall to your Temptations, to the weight of your Sins, to the Earth and then below it deep down where wretched souls and the Fallen just like you reside. Heaven’s Light grows dimmer, dimmer, and you think it’s good riddance – it was a false Light, a farce. Hell burns ever brighter and far more freely than the Holy Lie to which you’ve devoted yourself to.

The feathers of your once-proud wings molt as they’re stripped away while you tumble Down. Plumage once thick and lustrous flits away a feather at a time, leaving nothing but a cage of bones that try to shield you from –

The cold?

It’s not heat that that burns your flesh, but a cool cold, cold, frosty, frigid cold that crystalizes icy cold and deathly blue onto your skin. It’s frozen agony and sears your lungs and pricks you and it hurts but it’s not the hellish flame that you thought it would be, not the indulgent fire of life you were promised –

Hell is barren.

It sinks in as the cold leaves you rigid on Hell’s floor, immobile on your back, cradled by your cage of wings. Breath… ragged, breath… puffs before your face as you draw the cold, dead air in. You don’t taste ash. You taste nothing. Your tongue freezes as you breathe – you keep breathing anyway as it turns dead and black in your mouth and the frostbite is almost acrid.

Above – Heaven burns. A pinprick of light. And you haven’t the strength to raise your hand and reach.

Amusing Finds | 06/06/17

I was going through my Google Drive and my One Drive today in the attempt to further organize all my documents and writing, when I came across some ancient treasures – and by ancient treasures, I mean slightly horrifying relics from when baby Paris first started seriously writing.

A couple of things were really old, really poorly handled fan fiction plots. I found three plots for original stories/series that… Well, they’re not very good, but the bones have ability to put some meat on. It reminds me of the fact that I’ve gone through quite a couple of content purges and the fact that there’s material lingering around from… I want to say prior to 2011? is nothing short of a miracle.

Either way – I have some old material to look over, it seems…

Living With a Writer, For Dummies

I’m the only writer in my house. I’m the only person that spends a majority of their day, at a computer, doing work. And I love it. I quite literally quit retail work to pursue freelancing, and I wouldn’t change that for anything.

Unfortunately, that means that while I have the reprieve of not working with the public, I work from home. And no one in my house actually has a job… or a social life… outside of the house.

So, I’m usually surrounded, constantly, by people who do not leave my house and who also do not write and therefore do not understand the concept of being at the computer does not necessarily mean that I am doing nothing and that, yes, my being at the computer for 10+ hours a day is actually work and perhaps I should at least be left alone for a portion of those hours.

And it’ll happen in bursts. In the middle of a really, really good writing stride, only to be interrupted. Be it others in my house being rowdy themselves, or trying to have conversations with me, or… whatever whim of the hour is. Naturally, I have to respond, because the rules of social convention dictate that when someone speaks to you, despite doing something of Importance, you must respond. And give them time. Etc. And then I have to get back in the groove to be interrupted again. And I’m certain it’s not malicious, but it tends to be obvious when it happens multiple times a day that my agitated social cues are not enough to convey that hello, I am doing the Work, so talk about our inclimate weather to a person who cares and who isn’t in the middle of trying to make a deadline.

It’s a frustration that I imagine other writers face, where their efforts and their time are not respected, simply because people don’t understand that, huh. We’re actually doing work and putting in effort something. And I think for the most part, people don’t understand that writers, like other workers, need time and space to do their work. Writing takes effort and energy and constant interruption does nothing but impede that.

So, maybe you live with a writer, and maybe you’re possibly guilty of accidental interruption. And maybe your writer friend/roomie/relative/lover/partner is a bit like me, and tries to avoid confrontation as much as possible and is just letting it slide (while venting about it on the internet, lovely , or maybe they’ve tried to talk to you and you still don’t get it. A few tips.

  1. Work time is sacred. Respect it like you’d respect any other job that requires concentration and personal time.
  2. Our offices or office spaces or work spaces or wherever/whatever we’re using as a place of writerly harmony is not a free-for-all. You wouldn’t burst into the Oval Office willy nilly just because you wanted to talk to the president for a second, don’t come in our spaces when we’re doing our thing.
  3. Standing behind us to watch what we’re writing is creepy… Just don’t do it. You can always just ask what we’re working on later.
  4. If we’re quiet/not responding to you immediately/etc., it’s not because we hate you, it’s because we’re working.
  5. The ‘lol you have it so easy what with sitting at a computer all day’ and comments of other variations are truly, wholly, unnecessary.
  6. Yes, working at a computer all day is real work.
  7. Yes, writing is real work.
  8. We’re working, I promise you.

Pretty

He’s pretty. Delicate. Milk and honey skin that’s soft to the touch and you know he’ll be sweet to the taste when you get your teeth in him – and you will. There’s no doubt that it’ll happen, that you’ll give in, and he’ll let you because he’s a good boy and what you want from him is yours, yours for the taking.

Because you’re allowed.

Because he lets you.

Read More »

Embrace Your Garbage First Drafts

Your first draft is garbage.

It’s going to be garbage.

It’s supposed to be garbage.

Sit the fuck down and write it anyway; stop trying to fix something that hasn’t even gotten to the fix it up stage yet.

This is advice that I wish I was given when I first began writing, and then again when I turned to writing as a serious career choice. It’s advice that is so invaluable, that I have it as a sticky note on my computer, so that when I’m sitting down to write, and I try to re-read and edit as I go along with it, I can read it, yell at myself internally (or externally, some days I need the extra kick to my face) and let whatever garbage I’ve put on the screen stay there, until I’m done with it.

20170603_164842

The aforementioned sticky note. Not really verbatim, the message is still the same.

I’ve talked about it before, but I have an extremely debilitating habit of editing while writing. To the point that it’s hard for me (read, I have yet to actually do it. RIP at the last four NaNoWriMo attempts) to get through chaptered pieces because I can’t get a chapter actually written – I’m too busy trying to perfect it rather than move the fuck on and finish the damn book. Which… is a problem. You actually have to get through step one (the book) before going to step two (gutting the book.) It’s something that lends rather well to the bulk of the writing that I do, which is shorter pieces, generally in prose, but it doesn’t work very well when I’ve an idea that works better as a novel and I’m sitting here at my computer still playing around with the first two thousand words of a manuscript that should eventually get to around eighty to a hundred thousand.

Que me smacking myself in the face, because I suck.

And the thing is, it’s not like it’s just me. So many other writers that I’ve met or talk to have the same issue – or, in variation, they get through the chapter, but then they’re stuck, because it’s not perfect and they can’t move on to chapter two since it’s not perfect, and they’re stuck there, editing, tweaking, poking and prodding.

And nothing gets done. Not a damn thing. Suddenly you’re looking through your writing folders and you have about fifty WIPs and your notebooks and loose-leaf papers are full of half-finished snippets of something that could be great if you’d just cool your ass and write.

It’s rather frustrating when you sit down and think about it. For me, it’s a lovely little combination of anxiety, perfectionism, and a very fine dusty sprinkling of inferiority complex that demands that I try to make the first draft as impossibly perfect as possible on the first go – or I’m not a real writer. In fact, I’m the worst writer. I’m terrible. I should just quit because ha, I obviously don’t know what I’m doing if I can’t write a best seller on the first pass.

Thing is, I (and others with this same, persistent, asshole of a problem) need to get over it. Or rather, ourselves. Tough self-care. Remind ourselves that most authors don’t bust out best sellers on the first go. If they do – fuck them – but also, they’re probably either highly experienced and have done this a few good times, or they’ve made a contract with an Eldritch horror to gain their superior skills. Your pick.

Point is – stop getting in your own way when it comes to your writing. You want to do the thing. Do it. You can toil and labor over revisions after you’ve got something to revise, and it’s definitely not in a manuscript that isn’t even finished yet.

June Goals | 2017

This month I’m taking a page out of Jenna Moreci’s book and holding myself accountable for my writing and general writing goals – publically. Though rather than keep track of myself quarterly like she does, I’ll be keeping track of everything monthly (mostly because I know I’ll keep up with nothing if I try and do it quarterly. I’m awful.) The intention being:

  • Public humiliation for failed goals serves as a motivator.
  • Success with goals breeds continued success in the future.
  • The last inch of perfect organization for myself is reached and I’ll actually be keeping up with the 500 thousand things on June’s to-do list.

So –

  • A blog post a day. Habitual content creation, etc., etc.
  • 1,000 words minium of original writing a day; at least 30,000 words towards the current current WIP story by the end of June.
  • Have Tumblr set up and linked to this blog.
  • Have Patreon set up and ready to launch for the Fall.
  • Wrap up last month’s unfinished projects; can projects that I’m never going to complete/don’t feel like writing on anymore.
  • 15 shorter pieces through the month of June.
  • Steady commissions coming in.
  • Consistent client work.
  • Daily reading.
  • Don’t stress.

We’ll come back at the end of June and see how well I’ve actually done on all of these.

 

Heteronormativity & Queer Relationships

So, you want to write a queer relationship. Perhaps you have two female characters you just really want to see fall madly, head over heels in love, spiting all the odds and standing up in the face of adversity to say, ‘Fuck you, world, we’re going to bone and kiss and hold hands and shit, and you can’t stop us.’

Problem is, you hit a road block.

Which one’s the man, and which one’s the woman?

Today, we’re going to talk about heteronormativity. Strap on your big-kid panties.

As a queer writer, reader, and general internet gremlin, I come across discussions and opinions on this topic a lot. Like a lot a lot. Especially considering I tend to write predominantly queer characters, follow queer writers… You get where I’m going. There’s always a recurring theme every few weeks or so on the topic of heteronormativity in the portrayal of queer couples. You’re either on the side of aggressively hating heteronormativity, or you just don’t give a shit. Me, personally, I think I fall somewhere in middle.

For a quick run-down, heteronormativity in writing is the phenomenon where a couple is assigned roles expected of heterosexual couples. The man will be the more masculine partner, the provider, the protector – the strong one. The woman will be the more feminine one. The caregiver, the lover, the one needing protection. This is a common trope in romance especially, where the male character and female character fit rigidly in their masculine and feminine roles, and staunchly supports or aggressively pushes this image that men and women have specific, defined, unwavering roles that they cannot and do not deviate from. Overt or covert, it doesn’t matter. Man provide, woman serve, Neanderthal style. From my experience, this is generally accompanied by literally every other couple following the same mold, regardless of sexuality, perhaps with one female character being a lil’ mouthy, just to spice it on up. You can see where this gets dicey in terms of queer relationships, especially when it comes to same sex couples and couples that don’t fit gender binaries.

Get out of here, 1950’s, you make everything infinitely worse.

The biggest issue I see when it’s discussed within the community boils down to this: the idea that any sort of ‘heterosexual presenting’ queer couple is an example of heteronormativity and is therefore a bad, bad, thing, and you can’t do it like that.

Let’s unpack this.

Is It a Thing?

Yes. Yes, it’s a thing. I have read, whether in fanfiction, contemporary romance, a manuscript for editing, whatever, where it’s clear that the author is looking at their queer couple in terms of ‘This one goes in the manly role and this one goes in the womanly role and they stay there. Because rules.’ Where it becomes so painfully obvious they’re trying their hardest to make this couple seem heterosexual while not actually being heterosexual – see: high-femme lesbians being paired with overtly masculine, pink-and-glitter-hating lesbians, or feminine men who ‘might as well be women’ (not my words, I promise) paired with hyper-masculine partners.

Side note: One day we’re going to talk about this, as well, but it is not this day.

Is It a Problem?

This is where it gets tricky. It’s a problem in the sense it’s often the only thing we get out of mainstream writing and contemporary romances featuring queer couples. It’s literally the only flavor I ever see out of queer characters in contemporary romance, especially when the romance is coming from an author who isn’t queer themselves.

On the other hand. When you’re writing, you should strive to make your characters interesting, yet realistic. And, realistically speaking, there are real-life queer couples who are like this. One partner will be extremely feminine and the other will be extremely masculine, and they stay that way; that’s how they are. There’s nothing inherently wrong with couples like this, whether in real life or in fiction.

One Plus One Equals…

So, if heteronormativity is a thing, but not necessarily the big problem, what is?

Perception and execution.

In romance in particular, there’s already the idea that relationships are a specific way. Especially in romances featuring heterosexual couples, the male and female character are put into boring, square, confining little boxes with no air holes and told to stay there. Indefinitely.

No, John Doe, you’re not allowed to get out of the box and cook. What are you a woman?

Similarly, in queer romances, people expect the same thing. For one character to fit into one specific box and for the other to fit in an opposite box. And then the boxes never touch. Except for when they need to fuck.

This isn’t how people work. Even in heterosexual relationships, there’s variety. Every single heterosexual couple isn’t the same; your queer couples, when you write them, shouldn’t be either, and they shouldn’t consistently be forced to follow gender norms and rules. I find in general this reflects people’s real life perceptions of couples. We look at heterosexual couples – a man, a woman, one fits this role, the other fits that – and then look towards queer couples and expect or in some cases even demand the same thing. It’s toxic. And bullshit. How many times have we heard real-life queer couples recount the dreaded ‘So which one of you is the man and which one of you is the woman?’ conversation?

Too many. Stop it.

So. Perception is a problem. Society perceives mates, couples, partners, whatever you want to call them, in a very specific way. Even with social advances made we still have issues with people having very rigid ideas of how people within a romance act. Our perceptions about life often bleed into writing. Which is where we get the second issue.

Execution.

I’ve read a lot of stories, romance or otherwise, where there are queer couples or characters. And I can tell the author is trying, but they still don’t really get it. This is where we tend to dive into tropes or questionable wording – like the mentioned femme man who ‘may as well be a woman’ and his hyper-masculine partner, for example. And it’s painfully, over the top, in your face in a way where it sort of hurts your eyes just reading it.

I also see that there tends to be an emphasis placed on these aspects and these aspects alone being the reason two characters are together, rather than factors that actually contribute to why two characters would find themselves romantically inclined to the other. The main character is such a manly, manly, man, and his saving grace is his partner, a womanly, domestic man who knows how to cook something that isn’t Hot Pockets and cup ramen. The super feminine woman who doesn’t know how to change her own oil but her beefy lady can do it for her.

And… that’s it. They’re in love because of that. Somehow… There’s literally nothing else going for them.

Execution is where the perception and in some cases lack of understanding an author has of certain people shows through. And people think, that if these roles are fulfilled then that’s it. That’s all they have to do. The writing tends to err on the side of being woefully fixated on emphasizing these points, and results in a lack of substance while seeming to try and push a misguided heterosexual perception onto a queer romance (I also find this in stories where it doesn’t seem like writers understand how relationships work in general. Correlation, perhaps?)

It might not even be intentionally malicious. It might just be an author just doesn’t know or doesn’t get it. I also think that, largely, people writing queer relationships are often afraid of getting it wrong, whether because they simply don’t know how to go about it or they aren’t aware of how easy it actually is to write queer characters in general. And that’s okay. Writing is a learning process.

Fixing the Thing

So, there’s the problem, and the cause. Logical step is the solution, which is obviously going to be a series complex algorithms and equations because this is complex shit.

Nope.

The solution boils down to – perception and execution. Keeping it simple.

Evaluating how couples are perceived versus how they actually are, is a good place to start when applying it to your treatment of your queer characters. You should be treating your characters like people. Would you or literally anyone else you know appreciate having someone else’s relationship standards foisted upon you like some contagious disease? No. Your readers, especially your queer readers, will appreciate you giving them characters that actually read like people, rather than cardboard cut outs of Mary and Gary Sue.

It’s also good to remember that sometimes these aren’t even conscious choices. Sometimes you don’t even realize you have built up preconceived notions until someone’s handing you back your manuscript, full of red ink, asking you ‘Why though?’ And that’s fine. If you’re new to writing queer relationships, or you’ve written them for a while now but perhaps fall into the habit of writing your queer couples in a box, there’s always room for improvement.

Execution boils down to keeping some simple things in mind:

  • Erase the ‘which is the man and which is the woman’ thinking from your plotting and writing entirely. Don’t even make it a part of your writing process. It no longer exists.
  • Remember that even masculine or feminine people in real life have cross over traits. Give these to your characters. Make them balanced. Make them believable. They will be far more interesting because of it, and will make the relationships you craft around them more dynamic.
  • Do not let the phrase ‘may as well be a -insert opposite gender here-’ in reference to how a character acts cross your screen. Just. Please, from a desperate queer to you. Stop it.
  • Having a queer couple where one partner is the more masculine and the other is the more feminine isn’t inherently bad – it’s how you present it. If the focus is always on how manly one is while the other is the opposite, you might need to sit back down at the drawing board.
  • Being masculine or feminine doesn’t necessarily equate hating literally everything associated with the opposite. Please don’t let your queer characters fall into this trap. It’s redundant. And silly.

I hope this was somewhat insightful and perhaps semi-helpful. Now it’s time to forth and queer up your writing, as the fiction gods intended.

 

 

Forget-Me-Not

 

“What is your name?”

“…”

He felt the skin of his back split as the oak-wood cane came across it. It stung, biting into his flesh before radiating out heat from the place of impact. No gasps came from him, though; he pain was something he had known for a while and no longer reacted to. It was the question that left him silent, not an answer on his tongue.

“I asked, what is your name?”

Silence. What was his name?

Again, and again, he was asked, and again and again the cane rained down upon his back. The other students watched, as he hunched over the desk at the front of the class. Their russet faces stared back him, dark eyes wide – though they were silent, too, in their horror. Did they know his name? Could they remember it? Could they speak it?

What was his name… What was his name?

In the back of his mind, it tugged. He recalled it in the same way he remembered all the treasures of his youth they had forbade him to keep – fleeting, at the edges of his mind where they’d dance, just outside his grasp. His name… His name…

“Eric…”

That wasn’t his name. His name, he’d forgotten. He couldn’t remember the way it sang against his ear, nor how it tasted on his tongue. Eric… that was what they called him now, he remembered. They called him one of their names. Something other and foreign and far too grating and sharp. It didn’t sound nearly as beautiful, and didn’t taste nearly as sweet, but what did he know? He had lost the other one; he didn’t know his name.

The cane stopped at the utterance of that name. He thought perhaps he should feel something, anything – anger, fear, pain. All he felt though, was the numbness of nothing. He was nothing. Nothing at all. That’s what Mr. Dawson told them, anyway. Nothing but savages until they stripped that all away.

“…forget it next time. You’ll be left for worse. Get out of my class, and clean yourself up.”

He barely registered what Mr. Dawson said to him, and was lucky that he caught up with the last half. He nodded, not having realized he’d shut his eyes, and turned his gaze to his tormentor. A slight man, pale, with corn silk hair – they called that blonde. Mr. Dawson always carried a wicked look in the frost-blue eyes behind the rounded glasses that adorned his face, and those eyes had never turned kind glances to him, nor any other student.

Eric nodded again, pushing himself up. He barely registered the pain of beatings anymore, but he was weak; his body trembled. His pace earned him a smack to the calf from the cane, and he was too weary to hide the intake of breath at the sting again his flesh.

“Get out,” he was ordered. “And don’t come back until tomorrow.”

On another day, he’d perhaps welcome the dismissal, but his absence for the duration of the lesson would be punished the next day – it didn’t matter that it was at the order of his instructor, nor because he’d been beaten. There were no excuses.

You’ve brought this on yourself.

As he exited the classroom, he couldn’t even remember what he had said to set Mr. Dawson off. It had been a slip of his tongue – something in that language they weren’t allowed to speak anymore – and though it had rolled out of his mouth like water from a pitcher, smooth as could be, he had no idea what exactly he had said. And then, Mr. Dawson, flared up and angry from his mistake, had demanded to know the meaning, asked Eric to tell him what he had dared to say.

Who is Eric? he had asked Mr. Dawson in response, confused. Who is he, who is he?

Perhaps in the moment he had had a flare of rebelliousness; it wasn’t uncommon. To not claim the identity they had given him when they’d taken him from his mother’s arms, cut short his raven hair, removed his furs and his leathers and put him in the clothes he wore then… Well. He’d received his punishment, hadn’t he? And for what?

A word he no longer understood.

This is a section of writing that’s been sitting on my computer for… a while now. It’s a bit of practice writing in a new character’s point of view, for a story that I’ll be revisiting this year. 

Get on my Knees and Ask, ‘Will You Hire Me?’

One of the things I disliked the most about public school ‘getting to know you’ assignments and college entrance essays, were those prompts they would give you where you would have to talk about yourself. What are your strengths and weaknesses in this subject you’ll forget after your exams? Why do you think you’d be a good fit here at the University of Charging Too Much?

On and on and on.

The reason I disliked these so much could easily be summed up by two things: I find it very fucking uncomfortable talking about myself for the scrutiny of others, and my brain is an asshole who would rather do literally anything other than function long enough for me to strum up an essay’s worth of reasons why I think I deserve a higher education that isn’t ‘I don’t want to starve in the future because I have a terrible job.’ The anxiety of having to explain myself and up-talk the person that I am to total strangers in the hopes that maybe they find the train wreak that is the inside of my head interesting or easy to relate to, was always the bane of my younger-self’s existence; I had a visceral need to appeal to and please people. I was very glad to leave those days behind after finishing my degree (and am dreading it currently when I go back to round two of the educational boxing match.)

I bring this up, because the longer I freelance the more I find myself writing these god-forsaken essays, though now at a weekly rate depending on work flow. Since freelancing often comes with one time jobs and consistent, long-term clients can be rare, there’s a lot of shuffling about and cycling around new clients – and their dreaded but needed work proposals.

Often, I’ll be sitting at the computer with one pulled up. And I’ll know that I qualify for the job. I’ll have all my past experience lined up, ready to tailor to the specific requirements. Maybe have looked through some of the follow up questions that need further answering. Fingers poised over the keys and a tiny little mantra after I’ve looked over payment and decided that I can work with parameters – I’ve got this.

My mind draws blanks.

‘Why do you think you’re a good fit for this job?’ My answer? I don’t know shit fuck, my guy.

Points for creativity to me, minus a grade for lack of actual answer, however.