Tag: writers life

The Loss of Real Literary Journals and Publishers

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Many of my publications have been in literary journals of one type or another. I haven’t minded the small fee, once in awhile, for submission. 

But I have noticed fees have skyrocketed while many journals have gone online.

What’s worse is the slush pile of new “literary” journals asking for enormous fees. It’s disturbing and disgusting.

Questionable people with little or no credentials offering publication ONLINE. While they don’t guarantee publication, they are asking for fees and then one place even asked for payment for the publication in advance!

Submittable does charge a fee to journals to list their calls, but their fees are not in line with what is being asked by these questionable entities. (I hesitate to call them publishers).

Humans of the World is a website that asks for $6.00 fee to submit to their blog. Authors/writers pay to have their work on this blog? A quick tour of their website offers no publisher information – who is this run by? Who reads the submissions? How are submissions chosen? It appears they’ve been in business since 2022.

Poet’s Choice, based in Mumbai, has a number of calls, one is for word poems. I spotted an error in their call. There appears to be no fee requested – until you get to their submission page. Then they have a whole array of payment selections.

So – why haven’t I published in awhile? Look around – the publishing industry that we once knew is history.

I’m struggling to find reputable places to publish – as are many authors. Amazon takes many liberties with authors and they bought Ingram/Spark. Independent publishing is in question.

Credible journals are being lost. Publishers are extremely selective – they want someone with a large following for guaranteed sales. They do little to no promotion.

I have submitted some poems to a publisher, but then someone else showed me how they submitted an AI poem to the same publisher. I’m wondering if that is what I’m competing with. I’m looking forward to seeing the results of acceptance.

I’m not sure what will happen, where we will go, or where I might land. But I’m a writer. I keep writing.

The Necessity of Wasted Time

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I treasure the cool mornings in my garden surrounded by the soft sounds of birds twittering with drought tolerant blooms that still have the power to attract butterflies and nourish the bees before we all begin to struggle from the mid-day heat.

This is my time. A time before the day starts. A steaming cup of tea at my side and my cat at my feet. Occasionally, the neighbor’s cats stop by for a quick stroke before they’re off chasing a roly-poly or a grasshopper.

The gardener’s haven’t yet begun their buzzing, blowing, clipping, and mowing, and the traffic sees only a neighbor or two starting their day. It’s serene. Regenerative.

Therefore, when someone recommended I save my “wasted garden time” as a reward for a full writing day, my whole body reassigned itself to the back of the chair as I studied her. I felt profoundly misunderstood.

“It’s quite hot in the afternoon.” I offered. “I can’t really sit outside in the 105 degree heat and feel regenerative.”

She didn’t have an answer to that, but tried to offer another option.

Writer’s, let us be honest, need down time. There are times when things are flowing and we are bleeding words, we sit day and night at the desk or table or in some random chair maybe even at a coffee shop or even in the 105 degree heat in some shaded place in our car while we wait for an appointment and we write and we can’t write fast enough. But there are times, the juncture before those, or the moments after, when ideas percolate.

At times, it may seem we are doing nothing. We are wasting time in our gardens or traveling or walking or doing whatever it is that makes us who we are and fills our well with tranquil reflection. This is the place where our stories lie dormant, waiting for us to give attention to them, offer them life.

Temporary cessation is (sometimes) necessary for regeneration. Consider injuries: Does the doctor tell the athlete, “after you run a few laps, then you can rest it”? Or does the Rest Ice Heat Elevation come before the next laps?

Recreate is to Re Create.

Writing and Critique Groups

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Many years ago, I belonged to my first writing/critique group. In the beginning, it was great to get together, talk about writing, and read each other’s work. We were all novice writers.

There was a session when one member, the most critical of all of us, spent the whole time helping a single writer with the few pages she submitted. We didn’t get to the rest. None of us were too worried about it. The point was to help one another. The following session, however, the same member looked at my pages and threw up her hands, “I don’t even know what to do with this.” And she offered nothing. The rest of the group was as surprised as I was.

I don’t know what about those pages ticked her off that she wouldn’t respond to them but driving home that day I realized I was not in the right group. I didn’t attend again, and the group disbanded soon after.

Finding the right group has to be one of the hardest tasks a writer faces. Of course, we want writers equal to or better so the feedback is helpful. Personalities matter as well. If there is someone who waxes too critical without being helpful or another who is overly helpful and won’t be critical – neither is furthering the work.

Some writers might have different values.

One writing group was run by a well known editor. She had a certain way of doing things and everyone needed to do it her way. I respected her opinion. We got on well, even if sometimes we disagreed. One woman quit after a month. She didn’t see how all of our very different work and styles benefited from sounding all the same.

I stayed with that group a little longer, valuing the feedback I received. But then it was time to move on.

My writing and critique partner who lasted the longest offered me the greatest feedback. The more we read each other’s work, the more we talked about our goals for each individual piece, the better partners we became. And, we became lifelong friends along the way. Her work is sensitive, detailed, almost understated. And even though our writing was different, we understood each other’s voice and values. We were able to give each other helpful feedback on a regular basis. Her infirmities have left her without a creative streak. And as she tries to heal, I cannot ask her to read my work.

The few writer’s conferences I’ve attended have drawn people to me – but they are looking for a teacher, a mentor, and I can’t mentor all of them and still have time to write.

There were a few authors I would like to remain in contact with, but they have their own critique groups and want to charge outsiders for their services.

Critique services are good for editing, perhaps some are good for storylines. But trusting someone who doesn’t know you or your goals often ends with needs unmet and the critique unsatisfying.

Maybe a writer doesn’t need a writing group or critique group after a certain point. But writing is so solitary,it helps to surround oneself with like minded individuals.

AI Fiction – are the last vestiges of humanity disappearing?

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For the first time, I saw a call for fiction with a warning about AI submissions.

Is this what we, as writers, have to contend with now? I’m pretty confident in my fiction and the originality, the use of language, etc. Do I have to compete with AI in writing good fiction or original fiction? I’m just not certain how this will work for writers. (I suppose this is partly what the writers’ strike is about).

I was concerned enough about students using it in the classroom and we are told “not to worry, work it in with exercises.” Uhm, why? I’m trying to teach my student writers how to form sentences, create meaning, develop paragraphs and write to include their own beautiful and important opinions and ideas. Why am I going to say – hey, let’s see how well AI can write this idea? The students are concerned enough about their skills; if we show them that AI can indeed write it better, will they bother to improve?

Writing takes time and practice. I put in my 10,000 hours. (plus!) One can not develop those skills overnight.

Many seem to believe writing is a skill you’re born with. How will I convince students and writers that it’s the work, it’s the blood, sweat, and tears, that will bring about beautifully written prose and it will have all been worth it?

When you see for yourself that you can do it, when you write something that you never thought you could – then you will understand the accomplishment, feel the endorphins rush through your body, and believe the work was worth the struggle.

But, if instead, AI writes it, the student/writer never really learns the value of doing it for themselves. (let alone the hows of doing it for themselves.)

Is this the last vestige of humanity disappearing right before our eyes? The benefits and rewards of motivation, hard work, struggling and overcoming a challenge. The indescribable feeling of….. yes, I can!

I know many people are telling me not to worry, and perhaps I have fallen into troglodyte fashions of thought and creation here.

I suppose it’s only over when AI can learn to love what it does as much as writers do.

The Stationary State of Distraction

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When people say they are distracted, there’s an image of flurried movement from one thing to another; however, for me, it’s a fixed state of forfeiture. As if I’ve lost something, given something up.

It’s a vexing feeling of loss and sorrow. Sometimes, I feel I’m unable to change the course of distraction.

It seems, in attempting to change the course of distraction, we become more distracted. We try different things, move to different locales, tell ourselves we need to take a vacation, or maybe try meditation, or even – yes – make a schedule!

But they’re all just distractions that stop us from doing what we need to be doing. For me, this is writing!

At this very moment, I’m listening to an exercise to help me keep focus while making tea, waiting for a phone call, and writing this blog! Multi-tasking is the inroad to distraction!

What’s worse – I suck at sales – and I’m told I need to make videos to market myself and my books. Yes, that’s exactly what I need to do. Distract myself some more figuring out how to make videos to upload to social media.

I rolled out of bed a few hours ago. I’ve been sitting here, off and on, trying to write. I have not even brushed my hair. If I were to put this blog in video format, I would want to brush my hair, brush my teeth, clean the house or at least the background, put on some make up, wear something other than my favorite t-shirt… more time, more distractions to keep me from what I need to be doing, which is writing.

I totally get some of you are doing this. Congrats, friends. I need your secrets!

I suppose many people call this monkey mind (I hate that term), but it’s accurate. Moving from one thing to another – mentally – even if I’m sitting in one place. There seems like I have so much to do.

The truth is – I’ve done this before. I’ve been in the stationary state of distraction and moved not so smoothly to the state of active focus on my writing. I need two things to make this happen. The first: I really need to shut down all the things I need to do. They can be done later without resulting injury or death. Second: focus on something I want to write.

Instead of all the have-to’s and should’s, I just need to enjoy writing again. That usually begins with loving the characters, interested in the storyline. Maybe even start something new and exciting instead of trying to rework something that doesn’t seem to be working. When focus is achieved and I feel that other work that needs more work is worth my time, then I can move back to it.

Aaaahhhh…. now I feel better.

The Unnatural Nature of Advice

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I met an award winning author recently who offered me a review of my memoir in progress. While she had many good things to say, she had much advice to offer. It was logical, solid, understandable advice.

Which made me rethink the whole memoir and wonder if I should even be writing it. That’s okay, doubt is natural.

The following day I met another award winning author who offered me advice on the same work in progress. While she too had many good things to say, she had advice to offer as well. She had well thought out, strong ideas.

Which were completely opposite of what the first one said.

This made me rethink the nature of advice and writing. (not my memoir!)

One must seek advice and sometimes take advice to improve and grow. Seeking advice is natural for us. Giving advice when asked (or for some unasked) is natural.

Advice usually comes from someone who has experience in the field, sometimes they are not an expert but speaking from their own experience. It’s not invalid advice. It’s not necessarily bad or wrong.

HOWEVER, when writing, you must follow your heart, your passion, you must get it all out, lay it all down, before someone even begins to tell you what to do with this or what to do about that.

This is the unnatural part of advice and advising. Giving advice without understanding the end goal is presumptive and could be incorrect. Taking advice at face value without seeking other input could be a mistake.

Advice must be taken with a grain of salt. It should be backed up by others (or research). And must be evaluated with your own common sense.

My memoir is still a work in progress. Telling me now how it should be formatted or must be framed only interrupts the flow of writing.

There is also more than one method for memoir. Memoirs are personal experiences and must reflect the person and their experience.

Dad’s Pancake Breakfast

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We’d just left Collinwood in our rear view for a better neighborhood. No gang fights at this school. No bars at the end of every block. No kids sniffing glue in the churchyard.

Back then, Shaker was far away from the gritty streets of the city. The blocks wound around in curved patterns, trees and bushes, grass and squirrels surrounded us. The main street consisted of two lanes and a transit to bring riders to the square which housed an art gallery, upscale shops, and restaurants.

The neighbor next door brought over cookies. My mother grew strawberries in the yard. And for a brief shining moment, we had a life that seemed pretty normal, like what other families might have.

On Sunday mornings, my father would call upstairs – who’s coming? And some of us or all of us would race downstairs and hop into the car. My father was taking us to the McDonald’s All-You-Can-Eat-Pancake-Breakfast.

“For ten bucks,” my father said, “I can feed the whole family. Eat your fill!”

We’d eat pancakes, talk and laugh, and eat more pancakes. He’d raise the paper in front of his face and allow us to sit longer, talk about hair and make up and boys. Or maybe we talked about the music on the brand-spanking-new MTV.

For me, it wasn’t the All-You-Could-Eat, and it wasn’t the pancakes. We’d never really done this before. We hadn’t gone out as a family. We would order pizza. We would occasionally be treated to McDonald’s or Red Barn, but we never went out to sit down and eat. Part of it was money. Eating out takes money and we didn’t have any. This was evidenced when my mother pawned her wedding ring for bread and baloney, milk and cereal to get us through the week.

As a roofer, my father worked from sun up to sun down, especially in the summer. In the winter, he’d be laid off and laid up, not in the mood for much.

This summer was different. We were happy.

Maybe it was because we were growing up. Maybe my father had decided to work just a little less that summer. Maybe it was the new place, the new neighborhood, and a new lease on life for all of us.

It didn’t last. But the memories survive. And, in a body full of bad memories, we have to hold on to those handful of good ones.

Before my father passed, but long after I’d moved away, I sent him a Father’s Day Card: “That summer we went to McDonald’s for that All-You-Can-Eat-Pancake-Breakfast nearly every Sunday was the best. I loved it! I Love You!”

I needed him to know that I remembered some good things.

This week, I made pancakes thinking of him. He always liked my cooking. He’d say, “there’s only one thing wrong with your cooking – you don’t make enough.”

I made enough this time – they’re sitting on the counter. Maybe I’ll wake in the morning, like a kid on Christmas, and they’ll be gone – for old time’s sake.

Of Importance

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Someone recently allude to the reason they haven’t been writing is they felt their work wasn’t important.

But – is that why we do this? Out of some idea of importance to the world or to ourselves?

Are we not just driven to create because we are creators? Or does it lose meaning when we think our creations are not important?

As a young person, I wrote. I wrote with no thought of audience or publisher or awards. It was a drive within me, for as long as I can remember, to just write. Get it all out. Put it down on paper.

The idea of importance to the world didn’t come until later – college, in fact, when one professor said – but what is the deeper meaning?

And a student answered – maybe it was just for fun?

And she, slitting her eyes, growled, “We don’t do that.”

My writer friend always got stuck on audience. She’d start on a piece, but then she’d become stalled, staring at it for hours and rereading it and attempting to answer the question – Who is the Audience?

All these expectations stifle the creative spirit. Maybe these questions need to be answered, but I believe the answer must come after the creation.

Perhaps that is the true spirit of creation. Create first, ask questions later.

The spirit of commercialism to which we are all pulled, drawn, or lead is in opposition with the authentic need to create. For the product, we must ask the questions and then create something tailor made.

I don’t want to make products. I suck at sales. I just want to write. The writing is important to who I am as a human. Writing makes me a better human. Isn’t that important?

Edgar Allan Poe in his time…

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Have you ever wondered what it was like – the 1830’s/1840’s – when Poe was alive and walking around the streets of Boston or Richmond?

I’ve imagined the dark nights with gas street lights to guide the people at night. I’ve thought about his mother rushing him home after her show at the theater in the billowing cold of a frosty October, as she burned with fever, desperately fighting for breath.

Or Edgar, as an adult, leaving the pub on a similar cold winter night.

in the 1830’s, there were 12 million people in all of the United States. Now, there are 10 million in LA County alone!

In the 1840’s, the latest medical invention was a mechanical leech – let that sink in for a moment.

Boston grew phenomenally – from 1830 to 1840, the population grew from 60,000 to over 90,000. Today, Boston has nearly 700,000 people.

Poe lived in a town (Richmond) with 16,000 people. It was a growing metropolis with plans for paved streets (paved with wood, by the way). Richmond now boasts over 200,000 living souls.

These thoughts inspired the first lines of Eddy:

Eddy by Noreen Lace

He stumbles from the pub, slips and falls on the iced over bricks of Boston’s November streets. Save for the muddled voices beyond the closed door, the street is quiet as his body thuds to the ground. His breath billows in front of him as he gasps and grumbles and struggles to his knees, then to his feet to regain his drunken balance…

I wanted to tell an imaginary tale of Edgar Poe the night he nearly took his own life… what saved him? what changed him? But the details needed to support the time, to place the reader in the 1800’s with a sick mother, a dying wife, a bottle of poison. When I read this at the Poe Museum in Virginia a few years ago, the employees complimented the personal grasp on Edgar’s life.

It serves still as a source of pride. And I come back to it – I want to write more about Poe, his life, not the dry biographies, but a more personal investment in a man who is still very much admired for his literary accomplishments in the face of his personal challenges.

I like words…

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I like sentences. Big, beautiful sentences so long and thick you can wrap them around yourself and keep yourself warm in the winter. Yeah, those. But I like words too. They go together, you know, words and sentences. I like to make them move with rhythm, sing and dance in a way that you fall into them as if you’re hypnotized by them and you never want to leave them, you just want to sway back and forth and keep reading until you slip off of your seat.

It takes time to create those. They start small, like these. Then you have to let them sit, like yeasty bread, and let them rise. You leave, come back, lift the towel, pinch and poke at them, and leave them again thinking, “I know it can be better than that.”

Then you have to sit down with them, you have to get to know them, talk to them, talk through them, try them on, and break them then mend them, try this and try that. It’s frustrating too, I know. You fight with them, want to give up on them, want to trash the whole thing and sometimes you might leave in tears with hopelessness tearing at your soul, but then you come back on another day, maybe an overcast day that holds the threat of rain, and you sit down and talk it all out once again. Maybe this time, this time, it works. Someday it will.

Then you’ll move on to the next sentence.

This is writing. It hurts. It cuts giant gashes filled with jagged edges through you. It scars. It gives you nightmares and makes you curl up in a ball and rock not so gently back and forth.

But it’s also the only thing that pushes you forward, fills the empty spaces, gives you purpose. It keeps the dark shadows at bay and protects you from the harsh world.