Yeah, so it’s been a little while since I’ve posted anything again. Let’s face it. I’m just busy, even when I’m lollygagging. I’m never really dilly-dallying. I just think I am. I am always working. When I think something isn’t work, it really is work. It’s all work. It’s all part of it. It’s all the same. All roads lead to the same shit. And today I’m waiting for a new keyboard because this one is taking a dump. Some letters keep skipping and I have to keep going back and correcting all the spelling, even on the simplest words. Typing seems to be taking three times longer. The new keyboard should be arriving this afternoon.
I’ve decided to do NANOWRIMO this year. It’s where you write a novel real fast during the month of November. I always thought it sounded ridiculous, but it’s actually not so bad. You don’t have to write it and finish it, like edit it and polish it. You just have to get it to a working draft so you can polish it by the end of the year. Since I wrote Shrapnel in seven weeks (the last time I wrote it), I think I can write this next one in half that time since it won’t be nearly as long. Maybe half. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time now and I’ve been making synopses and plans for it, plus a few character outlines. I think I’ll be ready to start booking on the new keyboard about it in November.
I wanted to fill ya’ll in on my quest for a publicist. I’ve given up I think, and it’s because no one would accept me! You know why? My dirty language. My horrible potty mouth. It’s all the cursing and profanity I use in my book–and there’s not even that much of it, in my opinion. I even took out a lot of it while editing it. It was too much the way I speak in real life, which apparently is really bad. It looked excessive, so I took half the “fucks” and “goddamnds” out. Not much was left, but the first chapter is definitely the worst. It lightens up after that, but then comes all the sad childhood sexual abuse. So really, the faint of heart can’t read it. Did I write it for them? No. Fuck off, prudes. I couldn’t possibly have been able to write that book “carefully” and not “offend” people. And why should I?
If I wanted to sell a million copies, I’d try to write a book about faeries and goblins, or some such crap. Zombies. Ha.
Anyway, it’s just a little annoying that I can’t find and PAY anyone to just query some reviewers to read it. But whatevs. I’d like to just move on and write my next subversive, nasty book. I’m excited about it, especially because it’s going to be fiction. I’m not so much making it fiction because it’s not disrespected like nonfiction, but because I will have a lot more freedom to be as creative as I want. Of course, the main character is loosely based on myself–there’s no mystery about that, but I can play with everyone else’s characters, and all the things that happen. I purposely left out all the raunchy intimacy in my memoir so I could kind of dive into this.
Since I’ve been writing in this new “landscape,” I have been learning all these stupid labels about genres. What I always thought was just considered post-modern literature has been subdivided into all kinds of crap like “trangressive fiction,” “speculative fiction,” and other stuff. I realize that this term, transgressive fiction was coined in the 60s, but I’d never knew about it before. It still doesn’t stick all my favorite writers in a “box” because some of the writers I like are erotic, some are surrealistic, some are funny, some are dark…it just depends. Doesn’t post-modern just sum it all up? None of them are “beat,” sans one or two. Bukowski often gets thrown into the beat writers when he was not. Different times. Dostoevsky, Henry Miller, Nabokov, James Joyce. Are they “beat writers?” I don’t think so. Miranda July isn’t.
If I had to put it into a genre, I’d say my new work is going to be subversive LGBT+ literature. Or fiction. It’s probably not actually “literature.” Too fancy. I’ll be lucky if I’ll ever be able to write real literature, but maybe one day.