Silence in Mimicry

The knock sounds just as Klirran places her brush and comb on the bed, careful not to touch the rough outer blanket, in a line beside her soap, washcloth and toothbrush. She scowls, glances at the washstand—the soda is right there and it’ll take an instant to grab it and finish the line—but the second knock is louder, followed immediately by a third. Impatience. Not Inmera, since the Cloisters won’t need to talk to her about this newest occurrence, and everybody else knows not to disrupt Klirran while packing if the option to leave her alone exists. Emergency, then, or annoyance. Emergency means yelling, though. Calls to grab her gear and come. Annoyance. Klirran sighs, but she grasps the doorknob, the brass worn smooth and shiny under her hand. How many people have used this little guest room? How many felt trapped here?

She turns the key with her other hand, marks the way the loops of the bow leave red-grey momentarily-throbbing indents against her fingers, pulls the door open.

A woman, her tall and lean body tense and pulled inwards, the green silk sleeves tugged tight over her folded arms. Klirran can’t decide if she wants something to grip or if she wants to make the fabric prominent, although with Caiára it is likely both. Anger, certainly. Always is with her.

Sacrifices, though, don’t forget the green, and neither should Klirran.

This is a first-draft piece, so my apologies for its present roughness. It’s also my first piece in this character’s POV. Klirran is an intersex, bisexual, poly, autistic healer mage who is smarter than you and doesn’t care if you’re bothered by knowing it.  I loved writing her, even before I got to write in her POV, because she’s confident in her own intelligence, ability, sexuality and gender. It’s wonderful to write a character who is confident (unlike me) and confident despite the societal indoctrination we (non-majority) people get that strips confidence away from us. She doesn’t waste time trying to be something she’s not, and that’s something I’m very much trying to learn.

That last thing is why this piece is important to me, the writer, and why any future reader reaction is downright irrelevant.

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A Dialogue in Good Faith

I haven’t said it here, yet – there are a great many things I’m yet to speak about here on the matter of finding my way back to myself – but I started freelance work this year designing event flyers and administrating the Twilight School website.

The Twilight School, run by Bruno Lettieri (of Rotunda fame, one of the most amazing and generous people that ever lived) is the community outreach project of the Salesian College Sunbury. The Salesian College sponsors something quite unique: an after-hours education service providing classes, guest speakers and other community events, at low-cost, for the Sunbury community. Most of these conversations involve literary personages and community health workers, and the classes run from cooking to writing and gardening to photography. The Twilight School also sponsors the Good Man Project, which is about fostering and developing healthy and open emotional dialogue with, between and among men. Barn Owl Journal is another of Bruno’s pet projects for getting creative writing out into the community, and you can read the current issue here.

(For an event example, you can go and see actor, comedian and writer John Clarke this month for $10 plus drinks, and all you need to do is bring a plate of food for the communal table. We’re talking an evening with a seriously famous, at least in Australia and New Zealand, seriously clever satirist for $10 and however much it costs you to bring a plate of sandwiches or cake. If you’re in Melbourne and this interests you, book now, because places are filling up. If I were living anywhere reasonably close to Sunbury at the moment, I’d go.)

I can’t overstate how important this sort of thing is. The Twilight School is offering and allowing real connection, expression and education in a world where the privileged have an infinite number of avenues in which to communicate yet we are still discouraged from being honest and vulnerable in the company of others.

(When your feminist goddess of a friend is telling you that she’s not sure she should have written about her experiences with depression and anorexia because it’s not appropriate to tell that kind of intimate story, on her own damn website no less, we have a problem with communication.)

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Wanted: an audience

Before I begin, a tangent.

Last time I got wordy, you may remember, I wrote about geek feminism. Or feminist geekism. Either way.

Three weeks after writing that post, I went to the Sunday pre-release event for Battle for Zendikar (the latest Magic the Gathering release). As I was early, as the shop was quiet, and as I’d almost finished my current creation on the way up, I got out my girly-decorated game box, my play mat … and a sewing box, a Barbie and a Barbie-size skirt I’d made out of an old bandanna that needed a hook fastener to finish. If I can sew on the train and on the platform, heedless of what people think about my stashing half-nude Barbies in my bag, I can sew in a game shop, right?

The first thing I was asked by an arriving player, one who knew I was there to pre-release (it’s a verb): Did you bring any decks with you?

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The many skins of writing escapism

I’m writing another post about depression, self-hate and the expression of self-hate via the tyranny of list-making. It’s a post that is just about killing me to write; yesterday it took me until 2 AM (so, technically, today) to wind down from the crying jags provoked by a mere nine hundred words. I will finish it. I have to finish it, because there needs must be a dialogue about the lack of love inherent in the concept of the list of things left undone, especially if our (my) nature is such to tick off the last item accomplished without so much as a breath of celebration, but writing this has much the same effect of an emotional backhand to the face. I don’t want to touch it. I’m cringing and tearing up just thinking about adding another sentence or paragraph. My stomach knots, my feet cramp, my head spins. No, my body tells me. No. Not yet. I’ve been doing therapy for too long to miss the significance of this pain or the way it touches me with such physicality, but I think this post will be written in short doses interspersed with words that don’t hurt: I need those spaces to survive a pain for which any possible anesthesia is worse than the agony itself.

There’s a reason therapy is a process that happens over a period of time as opposed to ten sessions in a fortnight. I can’t survive all that pain all at once. Nobody can survive all that pain all at once. No living being is hero enough for that, no matter the lies books and films and video games tell us about heroes. I will survive this hurt, because I am a hero, but with time, patience and time, and I’m allowed to listen when my body and heart tell me that, today, that pain just might break me.

Tomorrow, though? I can’t speak for tomorrow, but a tomorrow will come when I can pick up those words and survive them.

(Warning: long post ahead!)

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Three simple words: I’m an author

My new job involves talking to a lot of new-to-me people. (It also involves epic losses at Magic the Gathering and being walled-in by Funko Pop! figures.) I’m spending a surprising amount of time chatting to shop regulars while they browse cards from the 2015 core set and buy up most of our Planeswalkers, which usually leads to questions about who I am and what I do when I’m not grabbing the Khans folder from under the counter.

To you, my readers, the answer seems obvious. I write verbose blog posts, short fiction and novels. I write about writing, creativity and the life of a queer-with-mental-illness writer. I spent a large part of last Thursday talking about my writing process to my fellow writer-friend, which is illuminating in the sense that I have enough awareness now, about my own process, to speak on it. I’ve written two novels and one novelette in this year alone, so I think I’ve grasped the output side of writing. Sure, I don’t have many readers as yet, but I’ll keep working on that, and, maybe one day, I’ll be able to make half a living income from my words. Everything else I do is pretty much an adjunct to writing or a way of keeping a roof over my head while I write. It doesn’t matter what people say about my writing (although those comments are most often positive): that is incidental to the fact that my life is about the arrangement of words to create meaning.

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Self-publishing (as a beginning author)

My friend J. P. Kyle links my last post on Amazon and Patreon and provides a great many links useful to self-published writers. Worth reading for this alone! It just so happens, however, to be a launching off-point for several essay-length comments by yours truly (yes, of course I write essay-length comments) about the self-publishing experience, blogging here at QWG and what it means to be a beginning/just-starting indie author…

(Also, Asylum is now up on Amazon. Yay!)

Call to arms, my dear creatives

A friend this weekend paid me the second-highest compliment a writer can receive when she told me my writing isn’t generic. This is incredibly flattering, but it’s also an interesting counterpoint to my fears that I am, in fact, everything but.

(The highest compliment is when people tell you that they’re engrossed in your words despite the fact you fucked up will/would in present tense all the way through a 140 000 word novel. ‘Amazing’ doesn’t mean anything. ‘I kept reading’ is what I strive for. If a reader can forgive me my faults and flaws, place their trust in me that their investment in my words is worth their time, and follow me to the end, I have done what I need to do. This shouldn’t stop me from seeking to improve, and it won’t silence my anxiety, that grand and notorious speaker of bullshit, but it is enough. If a reader takes my hand and comes with me on my journey, it is enough.)

Likewise, J P Kyle used my latest post as a jumping off point for her important thoughts on guilty pleasures, rape culture and romance in literature, particularly romance/YA, and when your words inspire someone to write, especially something else meaningful, I don’t think there can be anything more flattering or profound.

I think this is an entirely selfish reason for embarking on vulnerability in creativity, by the by, and why creatives need to get used to throwing caution to the wind in the frightening quest to be real. It’s not that one’s work is inevitably better (although it is): it’s the impact on others and the feedback one gets as a result of that impact. Sure, vulnerability in creativity doesn’t mean one will get more readers, more likes, more hits. In fact, depending on about a million factors, that may not be true at all. Talent isn’t an indicator of numerical success. The feedback one does get, though, tends to be special. We get to see that, in our words, we have had some effect on the hearts and minds of one other person. We can promote change, provoke, educate, help, comfort, inspire. We can make profound and incredible art, if only we step up and take a risk on our own honesty, and people tell us it matters.

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