In undergrad, for one entire semester, I sat behind a kid who was writing a pulpy AF vampire novel while our professor lectured about early British literature. (Side note: the 16th century had too many authors named John. It was a wild time.) A year or so later, we ended up working in the university Writing Center together and he didn't remember me (because I sat behind him), but I remembered him and was delighted to learn his ambitions included:

1. Becoming the next Stephen King

2. Having a hearse with a refrigerated casket as his daily driver, so his milk wouldn't spoil on the way back from the grocery store

I don't know what became of him or his ambitions, but I was struck by the memory recently because I've been thinking a lot about success, and how I will know it when I find it. Like, what actually makes me feel like a Real Writer™️? And, of that list of things, which parts are actually in my control?

My old classmate's list is the perfect case study: he had no way to ensure he'd be the next Stephen King, but for all I know, he's driving around somewhere in a shiny black hearse with a cool as hell refrigerated casket. None of his dairy ever feels the southwestern heat. He is free, and he is happy.

Hi there, fellow wallowers,

For those of you who don't know, I'm not a full time writer. I have a day job and I carve out time to write around it. When I'm not either procrastinating or doomscrolling while trying to get my head out of work mode and into a creative space, that is.

Whilst doing one or the other a few weeks ago, I saw a terrible take floating around on the hellsite formerly known as Twitter. I don't dunk tweet and I tend not to engage in a lot of discourse because outrage is a precious resource I refuse to provide on the cheap to technofascist dickbags, so I didn't post about it at the time. But what it amounted to was that work-life balance is fake because if you work and have a life it's automatically a balance. And like, hon, don't do the work of capitalism for capitalism. Eyeroll, move on.

Except, I started thinking about what work-life balance actually means. And wondering if the concept stems from the work of labor unions like the National Labor Union back in the 1880s. You've probably seen union materials for the 8 hour workday floating around: eight hours for work, eight hours for sleep, eight hours for what you will. A slogan, by the way, which was apparently written by Lucy and Albert Parsons for an 1886 May Day parade in Chicago, which goes in full: “We’re summoning our forces from shipyard, shop, and mill: Eight hours for work, eight hours for rest, eight hours for what we will!”

Hi fellow wallowers,

I completely dropped the ball on September's newsletter. But, since we last spoke (erm, since I last sent a ramble into the void): I did a second round of casting for my audio drama, got sick twice, gave a workshop on epigraphs and paratexts for the fabulous MetroWest Writers' Guild, went into the corn at night dun dun dun, and finished my novel revisions. Oh, and my agent sent my novel to editors at major publishing houses.

I am officially, as we say in the biz, on sub.

Hi, folks,

How are you?

I'm good. Or, at least, I'm working my way back to good.

And I don't care if that's grammatically incorrect.

Hi there, fellow wallowers,

For the first time in 5 years, I have a new––free and publicly available––story out!

At the start of the month my short story CoverLetter_Version5 went live at Small Wonders. I was the issue's headliner, which I still cannot believe. And people said such nice things about it that I'm still feeling a little verklempt.

Anyway, let me tell you about my month...

Hi there fellow wallowers,

Does anyone else think summer is the most gothic season? Maybe it's because I read Jeff VanderMeer's Southern Reach trilogy the summer I moved to the East Coast (US), or maybe it's the slow suffocation of humidity, the screaming discordant chorus of cicadas and frogs, the suffocating creep of kudzu vines... you get the picture.

Adding to my personal Scorpio and autumn-aligned sense of unease about the summer months is the fact that schedules and routines get mushier in the heat. In my day job, cascading vacations means work takes on a different tenor. And yet, I still have tasks. Work and writing and other various things I pile on because summer is this endless liminal space in which I should be able to accomplish everything.

All of that is to say that June has been a month of juggling. I finished a round of revisions on my novel and immediately pivoted to audio drama production. I was able to share the script of the final season with my cast after over a year of drafting and revising. Which, wow. Ending a series is an emotional experience. Anyway, sharing the script was just the start of my production to-do list. I also updated cast onboarding docs and tallied up lines and created a casting call which goes out on Saturday. (Want to audition?? more below.)

Hello there, fellow wallowers,

I'm still experimenting with what this newsletter can and should be, so here's a mid-month installment that goes hard into reflective mode. My usual updates-oriented mailing will go out at the end of the month!

Content Notes: climate crisis, fundamentalist nonsense, grief.

Photo by Paul Cuoco on Unsplash

Hello, fellow wallowers,

I'm currently revising my magic PhD school novel for the fourth time. I'm really excited about my agent's notes, but it's kind of same old same old around here as far as actual writing is concerned, with one small exception:

Small Wonders will be publishing my flash fiction magic academia job search story! I don't have a release date, yet, but you bet I'll let you know when I do.

Hey there, intrepid subscribers! This is just a note to say that your eyes don't deceive you. The newsletter looks different this month because I've left Substack. No action is needed on your end!

Earlier this month, I got the sort of email I've been dreaming about for most of my adult life. As you might have intuited from the photo below, an agent reached out to ask for a call. The Call, as we call it in the querying trenches...

I'll go into more detail in an obligatory How I Got My Agent post, soon. But, long story very, very short:

I'm agented, baybees!!!! As of April 26th, I'm now represented by Rebecca Matte of Bradford Literary Agency.

I’m a transplant here in the winterlands, and in former haunts of mine March meant full-blown, flowers and pollen springtime. But here, it’s still all ice and snow. The trees won’t even think about putting out leaves for probably another month, but the sap is moving. It’s an impatient time. There’s a lot happening under the surface, but so very few signs of it above the soil.

If you’re starting to suspect that the last paragraph was a belabored metaphor for writing (and the publishing journey), you’re right.

I had high hopes for what I’d accomplish this month, but those hopes were pinned on things outside of my control. Things that didn’t happen—not yet. It feels like it’s still all ice and snow in my writing life.

I have this writing superstition that, if I’m waiting to hear back about a submission the best thing to do is go on a walk with my dogs––by the time I get back, an answer might be waiting in my inbox. It’s rooted in the fact that I heard back about my first and third pro sales (the third never published because of some anthology issues) while I was at the dog park.

The superstition doesn’t bear out most of the time, but that’s okay. Because I get some exercise, fresh air, and quality time with my dogs, which makes the whole interminable waiting part of being a writer slightly more bearable. 

Cue that one Tom Petty song about waiting. You know the one…

Revising, revising, revising a novel...

Happy New Year, folks!

I had vague ambitions of writing earlier in the month, but revisions ate up all my time and attention. I’m happy to report, though, that my R&R is with beta readers as I type this, so I’m free, again, to fret about whether or not I ruined the book and repeatedly check my email think about other things.

It’s the end of the year. (Well, it’s actually the 19th of December as I write this, but you might be reading it at the end of the year. Or the start of the new one. Or who the heck knows, really, time is made up.) As is customary in these liminal moments between old and new, I’m indulging in reflection. Looking back on my year – one of the most eventful and important in my writing life so far – and planning for what’s next.

As is customary in these liminal moments between old and new, I’m indulging in reflection. Looking back on my year – one of the most eventful and important in my writing life so far – and planning for what’s next.

What made 2022 so important for me, you ask? The TL;DR is:

Wallowing. It’s a word that evokes both pleasure and pain. You might wallow in contented luxury or in misery about the endless slog of suffering and sorrow. One of my favorite Victorian genre writers, Mary Elizabeth Braddon, described the process of learning how to write as “wallowing in ink.” It’s such an evocative description, capturing the highs and lows of the writing life in one colorful metaphor. I haven’t been able to shake it since I stumbled across it in her memoir.

So, of course, I’ve stolen it.

Every month in Wallowing in Ink, we’ll wallow in words together. I’ll pass along stories I’m wallowing (delightedly) in. There will be occasional forays into the muddy, murky realms of craft and process. And sometimes, we’ll wallow in ink of entirely different kinds: art, tattoos, and the many awesome inks you can use in fountain pens, for example.

Finally, this wouldn’t be an author newsletter without updates. I’ll keep you posted about my novel publishing journey (current status: querying); my short story and nonfiction publications; my audio drama, and more! Later this month, I’ll kick things off properly with my writing year in review (including a long overdue recap of my time at Viable Paradise).