Morning darklings,
First thing’s first: Art Born Words’ Kickstarter goes live October 1st! If you aren’t already on the list to get the email, sign up now. We have early bird prices for the first two days, so you won’t want to sleep on it.
Art Born Words is an anthology with 19 authors writing stories or poems inspired by Steve Graziani’s etchings. The fiction runs the gamut: general, speculative, sci-fi, horror, crip fic, fantasy, and experimental. I’ve got a drabble and short story in this collection. I’m also the Editor-in-Chief. I’d love it if you’d support me and the 18 other authors by getting this very beautiful book.
The official synopsis is:
Welcome to a collaboration of creative minds. Nineteen authors and one etching artist have collided in a unique storytelling experience. With no limits, this collection features short stories, flash fiction, and poems exploring what happens when a community of writers are given creative license to interpret what they see in Steve Graziani's artwork.
Your heart will flip and flop, your stomach will drop, and your hands may just be a little clammy as you read. A tale of a dragon blazes fire across the pages alongside a lonely alien, a woman on Death’s door, a monster hunting summer, and the word “flensed”. Time slips, space is all there is left, and our pasts call for us. By the end, you’ll have lived many lives, been many people, seen many worlds. Thirty-one stories await you.
Here is one of the etchings I wrote about:
This is such a long newsletter it probably won’t fit in your inbox. But hey, a lot’s happened. This has made me realize why I added these sections to the end of essays. I’m considering that as I move forward, figuring out what works best for you and me. <3
Until then…
I’m currently existing
I got a button maker. Given my mood boards, it comes as no surprise to say that I collect paintings and drawings, photographs and memes, postcards and pamphlets from things I’ve done. The thing is, I hate clutter, I hate excess, I hate not seeing the things I have. Why keep it to put it in a drawer? So I came up with the idea to turn things I adore into buttons. But, wait, what to do with those? In comes a long piece of canvas that I shall hang on the inside of my closet door. When I open the closet, I’m hit with nostalgia and beauty, things that make me smile and laugh. When the closet is closed, the walls aren’t busy, I don’t have a box filled with ephemera, and my computer, google drive, and dropbox aren’t gasping for breathing room.
One doctor blew me away with his listening skills, his ability to read a chart before a patient comes to see him, his suggestions and willingness to help. He stands out as a pearl in a pile of very sandy clams.
In the middle of August, infusion nurses started coming to my home. Getting that time back, having the freedom to move around my house while getting my fluids—it’s been life-changing. Since, I’ve been able to get it TWICE a week! My health is improving quite a bit.
I had a barium swallow test where I found physical proof that my body isn’t happy with food. Hiatal hernia + slow gut motility + a thing that we’re still figuring out = those doctors who didn’t help were negligent, and my current ones are great.
I dressed up, made my curls presentable, and went to multiple art museums. I felt more in tune with myself after each. I learned years ago that touching base with art grounds me, invigorates me, soothes me, heals me. It’s why I often refer to museums as church. I hold them in such high esteem, with so much reverence. At each, I cried, I laughed, I put my face so close to some pieces the alarms beeped at me. I had discussions about brush strokes and light and color and skill and point-of-view and perspective.
—At the Portland Art Museum, I revisited the French Moderns exhibit with a friend. Somehow, we ended up going on a free day, so it was filled, very busy. There was also a woman painting in the center of the exhibit, showing what palette mixing and impressionist art looks like in-process. And a woman we didn’t know hovered behind us to listen to our discussion. Of this, I know, because she told us she was fascinated by what we had to say and hung around with us for… half of the exhibit—The hubs drove us to the Tacoma Art Museum. It was a bit of a trip, but so worth it. Hardly anyone was there, so we took our time and read every placard about every piece of art. My back was aching by the time we made it back to the car, but I was enriched. An emotional exhibit called Soft Power was a standout. I can’t stop thinking about it. We ended our day with a romp through a garden on the way home.
I bought a clip that looks like an over easy egg. I’m trying it out instead of pulling my hair into a ponytail or pigtails every time (I’m not doing a good job, but I’m trying), hoping it will be kinder to my curls. The first time I used it, I was reminded of the plastic clip my mother always used on Mondays when she’d clean the entire house top to bottom. My hair pulled back the same way as hers, I looked to see a woman who could have children and clean a house and take care of neighbor’s children and cook every night. I couldn’t see her, though. I saw a different version of my mother. A version she might have been had she not met my dad at the age she had—still married, but childless, focused more on taking care of herself than giving chunks of her away to kids.
A friend’s friend gifted me with baby teeth. I drove fifteen minutes to a house of someone I didn’t know to collect a little red leather box from a porch. It felt clandestine and strange and lovely, like something from a movie or an exchange from one serial killer to another. I’m unsure what I will make with them yet, but I have ideas.
It rained really hard, and I left the windows open so the petrichor could fill my house. It was divine.
There was a Writers Picnic in a local park, as there is every year. I’ve never been able to make it. This year, I made a one hour appearance. How nice it was to see some people I don’t often, chat about mundane things, literary things, film things.
I was shown a children’s book that made me cry, too. It’s called A Tree of My Own, and it’s “a children’s picture book that features the resettlement experience of the Karen refugee community in Portland, Oregon.”
Nui Wilson will be having a reading in the Pearl Room October 19th at Powell’s, and yes, here is me suggesting you go to a children’s book reading. And no, I’m not getting paid for this.
The Art Born Words crew met to discuss Next Steps with the Kickstarter. I told them about the order of the stories, and they seemed pleased. We laughed a lot. There is nothing like working with people you like, doing projects with people that have similar creative visions.
Yep, that’s the same woman from the photo above. Frances is just really great at picking incredible projects.
I’ve decided to do my claw machine anthology’s Kickstarter in March—closer to the publication date. Until then, everypony just writes, I finish the miniature claw machine, and find where we’ll have our readings. In November, we’re getting together as a group to hang out and play pinball, as well. It’s going to be a fun project to make and to share. If you want to keep in the know but not think much, go ahead and add yourself to the hit me up when it’s ready button on KS.
I did an interview with Sarah E. Burr and J.C. Kenny on It’s Bookish Time TV for their segment “A Bookish Moment”. It was so good! We talked about where ideas come from, my short stories and novels, my Janes series, being disabled, and how to be an advocate. If you’d like to watch the replay, check it out here.
I got my COVID booster, and it fucking wrecked my world. Could be because I got it at the same time as my flu shot. Could be because my body is aggressively mean at me. Could just be bad luck. All I know is I was taken down. Worst pain I’ve had in so long, I truly can’t remember.
My cookbook is coming along nicely, truly turning out incredibly actually. I really hope this helps people. I see it being able to, hear plenty of reasons why people might need recipes for yummy soft foods. So, fingers crossed!
I met a lovely person at the Willamette Writer’s Conference. She’s a friend of a person I’m friendly with. We got together for tea. Tea turned into a whole day event where we got to know each other but also discussed future writing and publishing projects about disability and neurodivergence. It was a beautiful time. Oh, and she’s going to be in Claw Machine too! Turns out, when it’s your book, you can add a talented writer if you want to. Crazy how that turns out.
I went to Salem with a darling friend I’ve been trying to spend time with for years. We’ve hung out with mutual friends, seen each other around town, texted a thousand-billion times. But just the two of us spending time together? Nope. But somehow, I was just coming out of my COVID booster fog when she was free. We really went for it. No tea or walk around a park. We drove an hour to Salem to see some lovely properties and gardens and the mental health museum (yes, of course I looked fancy) and rode the carousel and stopped at a strange, but delightful little grocery store on the way home. Our conversation didn’t stop bouncing the entire day. Of course I was a dead person the next day, a zombie with fuzzy hair. 10/10 would do again.
And finally, weather talk. Because I don’t know anything about the Dodgers. The weather had been feeling her feelings, unable to decide if she was ready to leave the warmth and bright sun of summer behind and embrace the overcast moody chill of Autumn until these last few days. I’ve found myself reaching for a sweater and a blanket, turning on the heater in the morning, wearing a lot of layers. It’s still not cold, so I expect we’ll still have a few days when the sun is bright and the wind is only cool. But oh, how I’m ready to snuggle in sweatshirts and coats and see the sky turn gray and hear the rain fall at odd hours of the day and begin my annual drinks-too-much-hot-cocoa-a-thon.
And you? How have you been existing?
Until next time, harness the Little darknesses and embrace the Little things.