Linda wanted to you to know that I had been nominated as best LGBT blog in Canada. Actually I was nominated as Best Blog in Canada too, which I consider I need about as much as the title, “Best pancakes in Peoria.” They, like the Feminist blog awards didn’t have a category for disability blogs, because while they had a category for military, for teachers, and for best tech blog: the report which verified that Canada does have 1 in 7 people with a disability hasn’t seemed to sink in yet. Somehow I was voted into the finals for LGBT blog: so, if you want me to known as the best lesbian blog in Canada go vote here.
I do think your energy would be better spent going to vote blogger Dave Hindsburger, whose daily blogs on disabilities made a loud and needed prod to people, as Best Blogsphere Citizen here (vote from as many computers as you can!).
You may be wondering why I was nominated for Blog of the Year, in a system which required people to VOTE for me, and I told no one? You may wonder why I never list any of the awards which I have been given or won in blog world? Is it that I am really that crap at HTML? Well, only partially: the truth is that I would rather write better than work toward awards. I spend, on average, 1/3 of my day writing, usually on my blog piece so yeah, that’s between 2-4 hours writing one piece. And I try to make sure to answer everyone who comes and comments, because I want every person to know that their words are important to me.
I don’t know if there is a category for what I am trying to do. I don’t comment on current events, not often, just this little bubble, one woman’s fall down a very long cliff, and the way she bounces off the rocks, hangs on this one, or hits that one with a crack or a sharp “snap” before tumbling on, and on, downward (hands up those who think I might be having a hard day today!).
A while ago (turns out a little longer than I remembered), Shiva at Biodiverse Resistance tagged me for the Roar for Powerful Words award, which required that I list some things that I consider important in good writing and some people to pass the award on to. I never did the award because I had strong emotional issues, as a writer, picking out people to pass judgement on in terms of writing, and in the end, as much as I appreciate the gift in someone saying that my words make a difference, I simply cannot accept it.
Some of my blog posts, like “fight or resist” took almost four hours just to write down, regardless the hours I spent working on them in my head. That one I did yesterday took some time. It doesn’t seem to have the right chord, though I thought I might have done it this time. So I just have to try again.
The one award I was happy to get was the Book of the Year one for Zed, because it meant that I wasn’t delusional in my insanity and that the work I spent on it was worth it: the rest like marketing and such was out of my hands. That was all I needed, that external nod saying, ‘yeah, you can write well. Now go and do better.’ Sure, I would like to spruce up my blog a bit but I try, I hope, to produce a certain quality of writing, as high as I can with the “one a day” restriction. And if you find that it speaks to you, or worms into you, or makes you want to steal it then I have done my job. Please do steal it. I choose the font and size and white on black to make it easy to read the words. That’s the only connection I offer to you, the words.
For me, this blog has become a microcosm of the experience of writing and rewriting Zed, that if I only make the writing better; cleaner, harder, and stronger. If I can do that, then people will come and stay, whether I am writing about naughty lesbian anime books or my circle of self identity within Lynch’s film The Elephant Man.
If it is not physical and emotionally painful to write for me when writing about topics then I probably am just cracking jokes in the darkness. Writing is a profession and all professions have costs. For me, if I don’t have nightmares then I’m not working hard enough. I don’t know if I am willing to go the length of de Sade and write with my own shit once they have taken away pens and paper. Am I writing for you? For me? For both of us? I’m really not sure anymore. That the problem with being a writer.
I was asked recently on “How to be a writer.” And I told them that there were three types of writing and writers. For the first it is a hobby, one that is enjoyed but also one in which the costs like revision and working on a single piece for weeks is often avoided. And that is fine. The second is a professional writer, one who must give up a significant percentage of their time to market themselves. These will become, in many ways, as or more proficient at HOW to sell writing and HOW to write what they know will sell than to chase the drive which compels the writer on. But out of these, out of the newspaper and even best-selling writers, the use and daily playing with words can sometimes elevate them, if the motivation is strong enough, to something amazing.
Then there is the third type of writer, who is half driven and half disciplined to continue, to push themselves ever onward in order to find and articulate that piece of them and viewpoint which is completely unique. See, each one of us, has this unique viewpoint, a unique voice; but it takes years to bring it out. And sometimes like Michelango’s unfinished marbles, it never fully emerges, but can be heart breaking beautiful all the same. Oddly it is this type of writer who is romanticized but whom themselves often regret being a writer, while simultaneously they would never give it up.
Do not be fooled, I am vain, lustful, greedy, selfish, self-absorbed and desperate; but most of all greedy. I have chosen a type of sex trade where I will try to seduce and sell you my eyes and all they see, even when, looking closely at myself, it hurts. I will make love to you and leave you, the call of the next piece to write making me abandon you; but always with the promise that if you come, catch up to me, I will love you anew, sell myself for you all over again. And that is exactly why I would enjoy being printed in the New York Times or in an anthology book; not because of the name, or the money (God, I’ve turned down money), but to have access to more brains and readers to make love to. I pulled my first book from production. That was 11 years ago. It was an act of entire selfishness: the book was crap (thankfully realized in time) and the publisher had been resold into one of those “sell through magazine insert” pimping organs.
So no, not the money, the trade I lust for is you; I want to make you feel the physical pain I do, I want to get so deep into your mind that I will live there whether you want me to or not. Writer, parasite or poor driven fool, all one and the same isn’t it?
So steal from me, print me in some high school paper, print me out and stick me on the fridge: that is why I do what I do and how I’ll live on. Not because I win some award saying that I am the queerest internet voice in the land.
1 day ago