“If I had to give young writers advice, I would say  don’t listen to writers talk about writing or themselves.” Lillian Hellman

Whoops.

I transmit from a cottage in Republican country. Today is Thursday.  Outside the cold could sink deeper into your bones than self doubt.  I heard from my writing protege today.  “Protege”  for lack of a better word.  Also,  I  like it.  Not to mention my protege is no  slouch. She’s  a published novelist and short story writer and asked me to act as her writing mentor.      

Holy crap. Today,  my protege asked  me this  question: should  a writer  understand him or herself thoroughly before writing?

Plenty of writers write everyday without any self awareness at all. But most of what they write is boring.  What I mean by boring  is easy-formulaic-safe-superficial. Yeah?  (Of course there’s also those writers who are so  full of themselves everything they write is pretentious. But ego and self awareness aren’t the same thing, right?)

I used to teach creative writing at the University of Oregon. Most  my students were either a.) young, b.) oblivious or c.) defensive/afraid. We can’t help youth.   Like Genesis. We  start somewhere. And that’s okay,  beautiful in fact.  

But those other two things, hmm? Let’s stick to “oblivious”  for now.  

Lately I’ve had an opportunity to work with a life coach, by proximity mostly. My boss is working with a life coach, and because of that, she’s invited me and my coworkers to do some stuff with this man, like mini workshops.  Also, we’re reading his book, Is It Fun Being You?    The man’s  name is Marcus. He emanates a becoming  aura.  He’s  confident, peaceful, engaged, and aware. He crackles with it, happiness.  I mean, he’s  freaking weird. What I mean is, I’ve not ever before encountered  a man  from whom such warm and sincerity rolled. Ever. This  coming from a  woman  who has  suffered  trauma  at the hands of men.  

Anyway, Marcus believes happiness is not possible without self awareness.

Having listened to Marcus and participated in a couple  mini workshops with him, I feel  more  certain than ever the sort of writing I’ve done and want to continue doing is possible only as a result of my own hyper self awareness.

What do I mean? I had a writing mentor in graduate school who asked, “If it doesn’t hurt, why are you writing it?” Self examination  is painful. That’s what I mean. Today Marcus mentioned how our “personalities” are not  our true selves. Yeah. Everyday, my personality shows up for work. Later, the true me writes.  And my writing reveals what I’ve discovered via  relentless self examination.  I  inventory my motivations, my actions, and  feelings all the time  then ask myself questions.

Why did I do that?

How did I feel?

Why would I make that choice?

Was it self sabotage or self preservation?

What was the result?

Am I making the same mistakes over and over again?

What are my  patterns? What do they mean?

Why the heck am I feeling defensive, scared, hopeful, jealous right now?

 Why am I  pissed? Why do I feel offended?  How the fuck did I get here?

I’m hard on myself, yes.  But I hardly ever do anything without being  conscious of it, and that’s the truth. Also, when  I lie about having done something “unconsciously” I’m aware I’m lying. Except  the times  I  zone out. As writers we  do it,  check the fuck out;  we’re gone.  Sometimes  I get so into it,  writing in my head,  even  while driving, which is why I end up with speeding tickets. Bad. But also  I’m a  task driven person and  can  lose myself in a task and not hear anything going on around me. True story.

Nobody can write  in way that’s convincing,  complex and  multi-dimensional, in a way that moves others to a reaction, if  he or she is oblivious.  We have to understand what makes us tick. Then we  understand what makes other people tick.  What do you think?  I’m a middle aged single mother who often writes as young gay men.  Love and desire  don’t feel the same to me as a young gay man? Really?  We sure do like to draw lines in the sand.  My son enjoys  this cartoon called The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy, and in one episode, Billy tapped his inner frat boy, and his inner frat boy was  suspect of anyone who wasn’t  a frat boy. Inner frat boy said, “How dare they be  different from you! You should hate them for being different.”

Know what my son said. “Billy is so stupid sometimes.”  

Here’s something  I’ll admit, damn it:  I like to think my boss and I have nothing in common. Why?  I don’t know. Oh, sure I do.  I’m afraid of people in positions of power over me. Also, I’m  a hypocrite. The other day my boss said,  “If anything happened to my daughter, they’d have to put me in a straight jacket.” I had this moment, you know, when I heard a  click then my true self answered back, Amen, sister.

Here’s something else.  My  boss  is a competitve person;  she  compares  herself to other people in the same  profession, and I do the same fucking thing all the time, meaning I  compare myself to other writers and then pale by comparison or feel superior, depending. Jesus. Either way, such comparisons are  stupid and counter productive. I’m stupid when I do this, and  the results are counter productive. Duh.  New leaf. Just like my boss, I now  make a conscious decision everyday to feel happy for my  peers, to support and congratulate them, but to not suddenly  freak  out if so-and-so got her novel published and I’m still working on mine two years later, or so-and-so won  an award and I just lost three  writing contests in a row.

So what? I mean, good for so-and-so, really, but also, good for me, and good for you, too,  because we all  do what  we do to the best of our ability, and that’s worth feeling happy about.

Tonight is Thursday. I transmit from a cottage in Republican country. It’s  cold outside. I’ve got a coat.

There are many departments within an advertising agency, and each has its annoying (yet adorable!) habits. Here is a brief overview of the departments for a traditional agency structure. I should be clear that every agency is different and, these days, departments are starting to bleed together (figuratively and literally). In fact, it’s gotten to the point where one department is indistinguishable from the other, which is why many agencies have begun tattooing specific disciplines onto the skin above each employee’s pelvis.

The Account Service Department

The account service department is the mother of all departments, which is to say it is the womb from which projects are brought into this world. Just as a baby human is conceived, the conception of a project in advertising involves candelight and world fusion music. The account executive and the client commence small talk and eventually discuss business goals and strategy until one of them passes out. Later, after a good stomach-pumping, the account executive tries to decipher the notes, and he or she writes a description of the project, something called a Creative Brief. Unfortunately, it is neither creative nor brief.

The Creative Department

This is the most important department in the agency according to the people within the department. The creative team typically consists of a copywriter, art director, web designer/developer, barista, and creative director. Of course, every agency is different, so there could be additional titles thrown into the mix.

Generally speaking, the creative team brainstorms as a group, throwing ideas back and forth. Concepting in a group setting usually results in bigger, more effective ideas than if each person had brainstormed on his or her own. If a creative execution is not effective, it is considered good practice to blame the ineffectiveness on the account executive (even knowing it’s probably the fault of the production manager). This account executive is then ordered to wipe clean the inside of the agency Dumpster*.

*Punishment varies across agencies.

The Media Department

This is where the magic happens, with “magic” meaning “constant goddamn haggling.” The media department does things like plan and buy media space (for print/web/outdoor), media time (for broadcast advertising), and—most importantly—media spacetime (dimensions, etc.). Strategy always comes into play when planning and buying media. You could say that these buyers and planners are the Sir Gawains of the advertising industry if that had any relevance or appropriate context, which it doesn’t.

The Production And Traffic Departments

Production and traffic managers are like the liasons of the agency. You could almost say they’re the dangerous liasons. They’re responsible for moving jobs between each department internally, as well as getting them the fuck out of the agency to the proper media outlets. It’s a thankless job, unless of course you count the various people who say to them, “Thanks.”

The Public Relations (PR) Department

If it weren’t for this department, the advertising agency would have absolutely no relations with the public. The fact is, advertising agencies are like tins of sardines, with the sardines being the non-PR employees, the tin being the  building, and the hand pulling back the tab being a food delivery service.

There are other departments and positions within the agency, of course. Like the accounting department, the office manager, etc. But little is known about these roles. In other words, they are the Easter Island of the ad world.

Ethel Rohan’s gorgeous Cut Through the Bone is now available from Dark Sky. This book is just lovely and emotional in so many ways and I strongly encourage you to get a copy. Her story Treacherous, is live at Pif Magazine.

Vinyl Volume 2 somehow managed to surpass the wonder that was Vinyl Volume 1. In this issue you will find poetry from Bob Hicok, Kirsty Logan, Megan Falley, Nate Pritts, Molly Gaudry, Rickey Laurentiis, Nick Ripatrazone, and grocery lists from Blake Butler and Kyle Minor.

Nick also has work in Alba and Salt River Review. He is joined in Alba by Geordie de Boer and he is joined in Salt River Review by Donna Vitucci and Tim Tomlinson.

Eric Beeny takes on the crazy Target lady for The Nervous Breakdown.

In the Open Doors Poetry Zine, you will find a little something from J. Bradley.

Pear Noir 5 is available for pre-order and includes writing from Kevin Catalano, Jen Michalski, Gabe Durham and others.

Also publishing their fifth issue is Unsaid and in this installment, you can find Brian Kubraycz, Blake Buttler, Jonathan Callahan, Anne Valente, Kate Wyer, Amber Sparks, Lincoln Michel, Matt Bell, Scott Garson and many other fantastic writers.

Christina Murphy has work in Pulp Metal Magazine.

There’s a really interesting interview with Ethel Rohan at Flash Fiction.net.

Five poems from Mel Bosworth are featured at Used Furniture Review.

Robb Todd wrote this thing about moustaches.

In Monkeybicycle, a story from Simon A. Smith.

A prayer from Brian Oliu graces On Earth As It Is. He is preceded by Ethel Rohan.

There’s a story from Reynard Seifert in Juked and he also has work up at Titular.

In the December issue of elimae you will find Feng Chen, Greg Gerke, Luke Goebel, Mel Bosworth, Christy Crutchfield, and others.

xTx discusses Ocean Vuong’s Burnings at Third Face.

MiPoesias 24.1 includes poetry from Helen Vitoria, Laura McCullough, and again Laura McCullough, JA Tyler, Mary Elizabeth Mali, JP Dancing Bear and others.

First of the month, lots of new issues. Dark Sky Magazine features Salvatore Pane, Steve Himmer, Mike Meginnis, Todd McKie,Andrew Roe, Greg Gerke, Chantel Tattoli, Thomas Patrick Levy and more.

At Wigleaf, a collaborative story by Barry Graham and Peter Schwartz. Peter also has work in Metazen.

Miss December for American Short Fiction is Jen Gann. Read her story, then this interview.

and I’m listening to these kids (not kids, really, but…) from PANK’s neck of the woods. Check them out here. Good music to compose by on the first cold day of December.

Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy: One month into writing POP ULCER, I have been diagnosed with my first stomach ulcer. Thanks to TUMS and Prevacid, my stomach feels a little less like a voodoo doll. I  have no appetite. If I can milk this liquid diet, maybe I can finally fit into the clearanced Lady Gaga post-Halloween costume my friend bought me from Wal-Mart. I was too thick to wear it to her baby shower.

My friend is scheduled for a cesarean December 17^th— her first baby, and at 22 years old, that’s not bad. I’ve warmed up to the best friend with a baby situation, as long as I hold it while in a seated position. I have nightmares about dropping newborns onto linoleum floors. Their skulls break open like eggs that leak giant yolks. Soft spots are not endearing. I feel as though my finger is going to puncture a soft spot like a rotten apple. I am not the person to call after a positive pregnancy test. Whenever someone tells me she’s pregnant, I assume it’s bad news. I forget some women look forward to birthing.  My friend will not breastfeed. She plans to pump, but the thought of her baby girl suckling her nipples makes her nauseous. I understand. I must say though, I was a formula kid, and there is still a disconnect between my mother and me.

My mom blossomed in the ’80s in a Whitesnake tank top and a white leather jacket with fringe. And I’m fairly sure I was conceived in the bed of a moving truck to the crooning of Mötley Crüe. Her BFF revealed this when I was 13. Mom still listens to hair bands, drives cross country to Oklahoma for the annual Rocklahoma Fest. She met a man there who smoked medicinal marijuana and let her piss in his Winnebago. I grew up in Nag Champa incense and the sound of bitches pounding pianos: Tori Amos, Fiona Apple. I loved the music of women who would have been burned as witches. We try to understand one another— my mother and I. Perhaps we’d be closer if I had been breastfed.

This lady nurses quite an intimate connection with her 8-year-old daughter whom she still nurses. Her daughter says that she’d rather “have lots of breast milk than a million melons.” She’s even lovingly named them Boobial and Milkeor.  I’ve obviously missed out. As this mother says: “There is no safe haven like being at mother’s breast.”

Call it a self-fulfilling prophecy: One month into writing POP ULCER, I have been diagnosed with my first stomach ulcer. Thanks to TUMS and Prevacid, my stomach feels a little less like a voodoo doll. I  have no appetite. If I can milk this liquid diet, maybe I can finally fit into the clearanced Lady Gaga post-Halloween costume my friend bought me from Wal-Mart. I was too thick to wear it to her baby shower.

My friend is scheduled for a cesarean December 17^th— her first baby, and at 22 years old, that’s not bad. I’ve warmed up to the best friend with a baby situation, as long as I hold it while in a seated position. I have nightmares about dropping newborns onto linoleum floors. Their skulls break open like eggs that leak giant yolks. Soft spots are not endearing. I feel as though my finger is going to puncture a soft spot like a rotten apple. I am not the person to call after a positive pregnancy test. Whenever someone tells me she’s pregnant, I assume it’s bad news. I forget some women look forward to birthing.  My friend will not breastfeed. She plans to pump, but the thought of her baby girl suckling her nipples makes her nauseous. I understand. I must say though, I was a formula kid, and there is still a disconnect between my mother and me.

My mom blossomed in the ’80s in a Whitesnake tank top and a white leather jacket with fringe. And I’m fairly sure I was conceived in the bed of a moving truck to the crooning of Mötley Crüe. Her BFF revealed this when I was 13. Mom still listens to hair bands, drives cross country to Oklahoma for the annual Rocklahoma Fest. She met a man there who smoked medicinal marijuana and let her piss in his Winnebago. I grew up in Nag Champa incense and the sound of bitches pounding pianos: Tori Amos, Fiona Apple. I loved the music of women who would have been burned as witches. We try to understand one another— my mother and I. Perhaps we’d be closer if I had been breastfed.

This lady nurses quite an intimate connection with her 8-year-old daughter whom she still nurses. Her daughter says that she’d rather “have lots of breast milk than a million melons.” She’s even lovingly named them Boobial and Milkeor.  I’ve obviously missed out. As this mother says: “There is no safe haven like being at mother’s breast.”

Any 2 Mud Luscious Press titles, current or  forthcoming, for $20, free shipping.

Today only. Get you some.

This Thanksgiving Friday’s Last Words feature comes, appropriately I think, from Tisa Bryant’s Unexplained Presence.

From the back cover:

“By remixing stories from novels and films to zoom in on the black presences within them, Tisa Bryant ruminates on the sublime power of history to shape culture in the subconscious of both the artist and the viewer. Moving from interrogations of François Ozon’s 8 Femmes and Virginia Woolf’s Orlando to the machinations of the Regency House Party reality TV show, Unexplained Presence weaves threads of myth, fact and fiction into previously unexplored narratives lurking in our collective imagination.”

Also from the back cover, a blurb from Brent Hayes Edwards:

“With its eccentric inventory of souvenirs, scrims, and shadows, Bryant’s writing intuits an angle of criticism in a tone of description. It prowls the backgorund of classic films, rustles at the margins of novels, peers into the storage room of museums, cataloguing the ways blackness persists in culture: as curio, as enabler, as counter-example, as temptation, as nightmare. Neither to indict, nor to romanticize the counter-archive. But instead to gather its shards of song (“Hush now. Don’t explain.”) within a “fixed boundary of silence.” And to point to a continuum of other histories, preserved precisely in the ways they are extinguished.”
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