I hate the Myers-Briggs test. I especially hate when people try to describe themselves by their M-B profile. “I’m an ENTJ” or “I’m an INFP, and that means this that and blah blah blah.”
You are not an archetype. You are not an alignment (alignments are a tool, not a straitjacket. It said so right the D&D 2nd Edition Handbook). You are an amorphous blob of loves, hates, repulsions, delusions, and experiences. You are not a box. You are an oil spill reflecting swirled rainbows, and you cannot be contained.
I’m doing my first book signing a week from today, and I’m starting to get really anxious about it. Getting really anxious is pretty much part of my MO, so it’s not a surprise. It’s still a pain in the ass.
The Poughkeepsie Barnes & Noble has a Local Authors Day twice a year, and this time I was lucky enough to get in. That’s great, wonderful, but I have no idea what to do. How long should my reading be? Do I make a poster with book pricing? I have extra copies of one of the anthologies I’m in. Do I give those away with a sale? Do I bring candy?
As far as pricing goes, I’m thinking 15$ for Song of Simon, 10$ for The Collected Works of Valerie Z. Lewis. Selling Val’s book is more important than selling mine, in my opinion.
So I’m going to brave ahead, and hope that I don’t fall on my face. If I do…there’s an IHOP nearby. I can drown my sorrows in maple syrup.
Like my posts? Follow my website or “Like” my facebook fan page and/or follow me on Twitter. You can also purchase my debut novel, Song of Simon, at any online bookstore or a real one (they both exist). Song of Simon currently has a 4.7/5.0 rating on Amazon, so it’s pretty damn good. If you’re looking for something FREE, you can read my serial (soon to be an expanded series of novels) The Watchmage of Old New York. Though it ended in February, 2014, it remains one of the most popular serials on JukePop OF ALL TIME!
I was planning for a May release of the novelized version of The Watchmage of Old New York. That isn’t going to happen. My editor is working very diligently on it, as is my cover artist. Neither will be ready for a while.
I’m ok with that. I’d rather put out something late, but of higher quality, than something rushed and faulty.
In the mean time, I’m working on the sequels, and some short stories for an anthology.
The short stories are affecting me. I have professional level stories going back fifteen years, and many have been published in magazines or journals. That’s great, but to me they are examples of how far I’ve come since those first trembling words. They take me back to a place I once was, but will never be again. Once I was full of hope. I thought that by now I’d have a major publishing deal and would be a true success. Instead, I let my madness overwhelm me. Writing has become less a dream and more a necessity. Writing keeps me alive, and it’s the closest I get to “happy.”
I am miserable by nature, and that is not going to change. I’ve found that I can’t even talk about my past anymore without triggering depression and/or anxiety. My anxiety is getting worse. I’m not a success. I’m a writer trying not to die.
Yeah, I know that I’m bitching and moaning. I also know that if you don’t have bipolar syndrome, any comment you make about “sucking it up” is ignorant and presumptuous. Live in these shoes. See how they fit. Take my meds and suffer the side effects. Suffer the twitches and ticks. Suffer the failing endocrine system. Enjoy living on a disability check, not because you don’t work, but because without Medicare, you are dead. I dare you.
Yet I still manage to work part-time. I still manage to scape out a living. People say that if you’re on disability, you’re lazy and sponge off the government and honest tax payers. Be thankful that you don’t have to.
By the way, I receive 800 dollars a month from disability, and 150 dollars from food stamps. Can you live on 950 a month? In one of the richest counties in the world (my rent for a studio apt is 1150? And be trapped here because you are so entrenched in the system? Try it. I dare you.
Or shut up. They both work.
This post took an ugly turn. Here’s a meme to make you happy.
As I’ve mentioned here before (I think), Valerie used to collect action figures. Sometimes she would pose them in naughty positions, but hey, who didn’t? I inherited her action figures, and as a tribute to her, they are all making sweet sweet love down by the metaphorical fire.
She also made this incredible youtube series using her action figures called “Gay Action Figure Theater.” It’s stars Buffy, Rogue, My Chemical Romance, Pete Wentz, Batman, and Oscar Wilde, among others. Not only is it brilliantly witty and charming, it does a pretty good job of capturing who Valerie was (especially the rant at the end of part 2).
I love this so much and I wanted to share it with you. Feel free to share it with the ones you love too. And hug them, don’t forget to hug them.
I am currently waiting for guests to get here for my big giant hugemoungous NYE party, that really isnt that hugemoungous. I am expecting 6 people, including myself, but that is about the maximum capacity of my tiny studio apartment.
I love to entertain, and I spent far more money getting ready for this than I should’ve. I’m a writer, which means that I am painfully poor (more writer’s angst in a later post). I wanted one of those giant subs, so I ordered one.
Myyyyy hero *swoon*
It came at 1pm.
That means that I had to find a way to fit 4 feet of American Hero (half without cheese) into my fridge to keep it fresh until guests get here. That’s a lot of sub for 6 people . . . or not enough.
I also put out a dish of my precious Starbursts (they are a contradiction, just like me). I hope that somebody brings booze. I only have one bottle of Bacardi.
I really love entertaining, but I always expect that something will go wrong. Mostly, I’m afraid that no one will show. This comes from experiences in my childhood. I was unpopular and only a few kids would come to my birthday parties, even if they were at someplace fun, like at a bowling alley or an arcade.
12 year olds all bowl with blue balls . . .
the kicker was that none of my school friends came to my bar mitzvah. 3 Friends came, and I knew them from outside of school. Instead, of all my “friends” went to another kid’s party because they liked him better. A couple did come to the service, and for that, I am grateful, but there is nothing like being the center of a party where the only people there are relatives that you hardly know.
When I was a teen, i always tried to have people over at my place and I would supply the beer or weed. I wanted them to like me. I think that they did, but they certainly liked my beer. The fact that none of them talk to me anymore is probably for the best. Sure, people drift away, but that little kid standing alone at his bar mitzvah still feels like he’s up there on stage alone, in an awful brown suit, with terrible hair that my mom cut and big ugly glasses.
This turned into a very whiny post. I am sorry for that. I will end with 5 things I like about throwing parties:
5 — I don’t have to drive home — I can get as drunk as I want and don’t have to drive drunk. (BTW: AAA will drive you home for free tonight)
4 — No passing out on a strange couch — There is always the danger of waking up with a penis drawn on your forehead. Once I woke up covered in vomit and girlfriend (Not the current one)
3 — People bring you beer — alcohol delivery system 🙂 Remember, in fiction, all writers, priests, and wizards are alcohol dependent
2 — The antici . . . pation — I love the feeling of right now, waiting for people to show. It’s all very exciting
1 — Validation — I am weak and I need to believe that people love me. More whininess. I am such a douche.
casandersdotnet 