I never jump on the celebrity bandwagon, especially not when it relates to death. I tend to process such information privately and have nothing public to say. Honestly, I find our culture’s obsession with celebrities to be distasteful. I love movies, theater, music, I even love a few television shows, but I really don’t care about the private lives of those public people. I may wonder what their lives are really like and how they deal with the celebrity while trying to be “normal,” but I don’t read the tabloids or watch E! True Hollywood Story. I figure that stuff is as much fiction as what I see on the screen, you know?
I wasn’t a Michael Jackson fan. True, I grew up listening to the Jackson 5 and came of age during Thriller. I will admit (with some embarrassment) that I owned my share of white sparkly socks and loafers, but that’s about it with regard to my interest in Michael Jackson. As the years went by and he became a shadow of himself and a caricature of someone else (Diane Ross, perhaps?), I dismissed him as another celebrity who lost himself in stardom. A musical genius, a tortured soul, a freak.
Michael Jackson hasn’t been on my radar for years. I vaguely remember hearing he was planning to make a comeback, but with the exception of the occasional song on the radio (or in the elevator), I never gave him a thought. Until June 5.
On the evening of June 5, I was sitting in Starbucks (go figure) at the airport, waiting for Jay’s plan to arrive from Panama, via Atlanta. I had a book with me, but I was tired (pregnancy will do that to you) and spent more time people watching while I sipped my vanilla latte. The soundtrack that night was oldies, songs designed to keep the crowd flowing in and out of Starbucks (though I was the only one in there that night). The Jackson 5’s “ABC” came on, really too loud for the small space. But it didn’t matter. It’s a catchy song and I can’t hear it without remembering some old television performance of the boys with little Michael belting out the lyrics in that high, prepubescent voice that wasn’t much different from his adult voice.
Listening to that song, I had this sudden thought-- call it an urge-- to go back to that time when Michael Jackson was still a kid and rescue him from all the fame and fortune and insanity his life would become. Odd thought, huh? Maternal urge, I guess-- to save a little boy from himself. To yank him off the stage as he sang “ABC” and take him somewhere safe where he could be a kid and have a normal childhood and grow up knowing and understanding himself. Being allowed to become an adult before being given the choice whether to share that self with the world. I’m a fiction writer, so the image was so vivid I could see the story playing out in my head even though I knew it was just an odd little fantasy of my very tired brain.
I’d never really considered Michael Jackson that way before that night at the airport. I had never really felt sorry for him or considered what his life, especially his childhood, might have been like. But that night I wanted to cry for that little boy. The song faded and left me with a kind of bittersweet feeling for a person I never knew.
Three weeks later and Michael Jackson is dead, a little boy trapped inside the body of an emotionally and physically damaged 50 year old man. I don’t think it was particularly prophetic that I had that thought such a short time before his death. I’m pregnant, I’m emotional and, even though I didn’t know it for sure at the time, I kept feeling like I was having a boy. So it’s only natural I’d feel protective of little boys-- even if the little boy in question was forty years in the past.
Still, I can’t help but wonder what if. Who would little Michael Jackson have grown up to be if someone had yanked him out of the spotlight before it was too late?
I’m excited that I’m already starting to receive submissions for Fairy Tale Lust. I thought I’d put on my editor hat for a minute and clarify a couple of points for anyone who is considering submitting a story (and I hope you will!).
--I want stories that are reinterpretations of classic fairy tales or new fairy tales based on classic archetypes. I have received several stories that are almost identical to the original fairy tales but with some sex thrown in. I’m looking for clever (preferably contemporary) twists on the classics or original stories that pay homage to the fairy tale genre.
--I know that animals populate many fairy tales. However, I do not want stories that involve any of the characters having any kind of sex with any those animals-- even if those animals walk and talk and wear clothes.
--On that note, I did not include the usual no-no’s in my original call for submissions because I assumed (perhaps mistakenly) that everyone already knows what they are. (I should have learned from Alison.) For the sake of my eyes, here they are: no sex with animals, no sex with minors, no sex between relatives. So far, I have received stories involving each taboo, as well as one story that managed to include all three.
--I will echo Rachel Kramer Bussel’s plea to follow the guidelines regarding formatting. This is something I repeat weekly when I’m teaching College Composition. Proper manuscript formatting (double-spaced, first line of each paragraph indented, no extra spaces between paragraphs, standard 12 pt. font) is not an editor being picky-- it’s just the correct way a manuscript should be formatted.* Plus, it saves the editor time when compiling the final 20+ stories into one cohesive manuscript.
(*I realize that formatting for an online venue is often different. This is for print and the guidelines are pretty standard.)
--When in doubt, ask. I am more than happy to answer questions regarding the anthology, so don’t hesitate to .
--For ideas about what I’m seeking, check out Nancy Madore’s Enchanted anthologies for Harlequin Spice or Cathy Yardley’s fairy tale novels Crave and Enchanted.
--Having said all that, I really am open to anything your imagination might conjure. Just leave the pets, kids and relatives out of it.
I will add that I’ve already received a couple of stories that really knocked my socks off. Keep ‘em coming! I’m so excited about this project and hope it will be the first in a fairy tale series.
I am sorely lacking the motivation to write lately. I’m trying to get it back, but… well, see list of excuses below. Sigh. Bad writer. Bad, bad writer. It doesn’t help that I know so many authors who are being so wildly prolific right now. I’m beating myself up on an hourly basis these days.
One of my problems is that I am wrapped up in a project I’m not really sure I even want to do. It initially came along before the whole I’m pregnant/I’m exhausted phase of my life and I’m just now really getting into it (not my fault, there was a delay on the other end). In any case, I’m less than enthusiastic about it but I made a promise and I keep my promises, so…
Part of me thinks I should just bow out before I get more tied into something that’s going to sap my time and writing energy (what little I have these days). Part of me thinks I should just push through so I can move on to the things I really want to do. That’s my other problem. While I drag my feet over this project, I’m totally ignoring my other writing. It is my way. One thing at a time until it’s done, then move on. Except if the one thing I’m currently working on (allegedly working on) is taking weeks to complete, it puts me behind on everything else. Bad system, I know.
Which brings me to another of my problems: the inability to let things go and just move on. I have nothing invested in this project, other than maybe my reputation (but probably not even that). It has turned into a bigger animal than I anticipated, with research I don’t want to do and expectations I’m not sure I want to meet. And yet, and yet… I can’t just walk away. Oh no, not me! I must complete the project. I must prove I am worthy. I must satisfy my own conscience or ego or inner dominatrix or whatever it is that makes me do things I’m not really that interested in doing when I could be doing something more fun-- like poking out my eye with a stick.
Okay, it’s not that bad. Truly. I think if this had come along at another time-- say six months or even a year ago-- I’d be wildly ecstatic about it. But now… now is not a good time for me to be taking on big projects that aren’t my own pet projects. Right now I need to be wildly excited about my writing so that I can push past the fatigue, the mental blocks, the distractions. Some people think I’m this amazingly self-disciplined person-- and sometimes I can be. More often than not, though, it’s just my passion for the writing that keeps me self-disciplined when I could be napping or shopping or whatever. When the passion isn’t there, the self-discipline goes out the window and a nap sounds pretty damned good.
Mmm… nap.
Where was I? What was my point again? Ah, no point really. Just letting you know where I am right now. Which is to say, in bed and getting ready to go to sleep and no closer to being finished with this writing obligation than I was yesterday at this time. However, I have given myself a deadline of next Monday to get it off my desk (and by desk I mean laptop, since I don’t work at a desk) and out of my life. It’s Monday now. I have a week. I will be self-disciplined.
Hold me to that, won’t you?
Serving peanut butter sandwiches and ripe bananas daily.
I haven’t written fiction in a month. I’m not sure how that happened and I’m annoyed with myself. In fact, I feel a little nauseous when I think about it. I’m a writer. I’m supposed to be writing. I’m not writing.
I have excuses-- go ahead, ask me. There was the I just finished a big project and need to take a few days off excuse. As well as the semester is over and I have the summer off from teaching so I’m taking a few days off excuse. The it’s my birthday week excuse didn’t make me feel too guilty. Neither did the I’m pregnant and too utterly exhausted to be creative excuse because I was simply too tired to care. And that excuse is closely related to the I’m nesting and would rather clean out this drawer than write excuse, which is practically biological and you can’t argue with biology, right? Of course, I swear I was finally getting ready to do some serious writing when I had to use the old my computer is fried and I can’t write until it’s fixed excuse.
Not that I haven’t done some kinds of writing. I have. Which is why I also have the I’ve been brainstorming anthology ideas/got contracted to edit an anthology/had to write my first call for submissions excuse. Followed by the you should see the notes for all of the other ideas I’ve been brainstorming excuse. And the I’ve been blogging on two blogs, and that’s kind of like writing excuse. Not to mention the I was approached by someone who likes my writing and I’m working on something which might turn into a big writing project excuse. Let’s not forget the golden oldie excuse I write best under a deadline.
This past week, I’ve had the hubby just got home from deployment excuse and the we have a million things to do and we’d better start now excuse. It’s Friday night, which means I’m now using the it’s the weekend and I have things to do but I promise I’ll hit the writing hard on Monday excuse.
In the end though, they’re just excuses. Some are legit and some aren’t, but they’re all reasons to not write and I don’t need reasons to not write. I don’t even need reasons to write. I have no less than six stories that need to be written in the next month, plus a sample for the above mentioned potential big writing project, plus a novel proposal I want to finish before RWA. I have the reasons to write-- I just need to sit down and write.
And I promise I’ll write… on Monday. 
What’s it all about?
Life. Love. Writing. Editing. Sex. Books. Romance. Movies. Friendship. Photography. Teaching. Coffee. (Lots of coffee.) Travel. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Memories. Experiences. Rants. Raves. Reviews. Chocolate. Mmm… chocolate. Musings of an insomniac writer. Want to know more?
