Gossip [&] the Devil

A Postcard from Hopeless Beach hanging in my office. "Artists must be sacrificed to their art. Like bees, they must put their lives into the sting they give." - Ralph Waldo Emerson (Sets for sale soon at modernorphandesigns.com)

Years ago I was going to help a girl friend write a book. We talked about it often between 2005 – 2008 and I was extremely excited. For a while in 2005 I identified myself as “the co-author of x’s pending book.” It filled me with accomplishment, desire and a drive to succeed. Numerous people could potentially read this book and the idea of nourishing not only a friend but my creative child was lucrative.

Needless to say it never happened despite many promises, plans and proclamations that I was the “perfect person for the job.” (Oh how my praises were sang from the balconies!) For a brief moment I didn’t know how to come to terms with this, but then it all seemed to fade away.

When you define yourself by someone else you glean nothing of yourself. When you place that burden upon your head you automatically become heavy with a needless weight.

Today I’ve released my first book (before she has), have a pending merchandise line and have signed my first national publishing contract. I’ve started to gain my own recognition, pay my dues and carve my own niche on the surface of the Earth. Before I was too ignorant to believe in myself by my own merits and it hurt me for many years. That wasn’t her fault and it wasn’t mine. I just didn’t know better. After the abrupt dissolution of the potential book deal I slowly regained my bearings and started incorporating new ways of thinking about myself, my creativity and how they connect in my life.

Launching this site was the first step in that process.  A year ago Gossip [&] the Devil proper was born. I’ve conducted interviews with some of my favorite artists, people changing the game in the art world, written reviews and forged genuine ties across the globe. G[&]D has served as my main house for everything artistic and has virtually taken on a life of its own. That isn’t to say it came easy because I assure you, it didn’t and I will continue to fight for it until the end of G[&]D and on through the birth of something else. I believe in this, I believe in art, I believe in the belief of dreaming out loud, as gaudy and joyously as you can. I believe in experiencing every facet of life which is why you’ll find posts about pills, jetsets and regrets. About music, muses and musings on revenge. Those are some of MY facets, excavate some of yours. Sincerity is free, run through life with armfuls of it, with mouthfuls of honesty and always an ever educated eye on the mistakes of your past. Don’t give in and don’t define yourself by anyone else.

Found in the Red Line subway station, Chicago. "Broken pockets are / leaking poems on the ground / gather up the words." A haiku by a Columbia College student. (Columbia College has rejected me many times. One day though...)

To help me celebrate my creative birthday, editor Larry Ziman, who you should by now know from The Great American Poetry Show, called me a few nights ago. (If all goes well, and all of the poets get their proofs back on time, Volume 2 will be released in June 2010.) We went over some technical stuff for “Voyeur” and discussed poetry vs. poems, how many bad poets get published with the help of bad editors and my potential status as a demimonde (demimonde = a woman on the outskirts of respectable society, usually with many rich and well-to-do benefactors). He said he’d never had someone as excited as I was/am to be published in TGAPS. I told him Pushcart Prize nominations aside, I worked my ass off to secure a spot in Volume 2, submitting 40+ submissions before ONE was finally taken.

In further celebration it has been a busy month for me personally on a number of levels. Namely the installation of my new job with I absolutely love and am extremely grateful for. It’s been a long time since I’ve got to put my juices to creative use at a place of employment and it feels refreshing to be able to do that again. My new employers are some of the nicest, kindest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting and I think it’s no coincidence they came across at this point in my life when I needed some gentler guidance than I’d previously been getting. In fact some of the harshest violence was coming from myself, which was far from productive and likely contributed to some of the writer’s block I was experiencing.

One of the things hit hardest with this lack of creative flow has been the Billy series over at Troubadour 21. While it started out as a single piece of microfiction I somehow thought it’d be a great idea to morph it into an entire series. I’m not sad to say, but it’ll be coming to an end very soon as I’ve simply fallen out of love with the characters and the story, which represents a time in my life I’m trying to move past. I’d love to do another series one day as working with the short story editor Paquita Roth has been an absolute pleasure, but only after I’ve secured fresh characters and a desire to flesh them out over a series. For those of you still following, part IX, titled “Two Worlds Collide” has been posted here, with part X titled “Checkmate” to be posted soon after.

I think 2009 taught me about darkness more than anything. It was arguably one of the worst years of my life, though it brought me some wonderful things (my book, my collaboration with Natascha Artworx and the artists I’ve interviewed among them). People will leave you in life. They’ll love you and lie to you. You’ll do the same to someone else. You’ll regret. It’s part of the experience. You’ll wake up in the middle of the night and know what the darkness feels like, you’ll feel it seep into your very pores. You’ll step into the sunlight like it was your first time. You’ll make promises you will and won’t keep, many times to yourself. Take these things and DO something. That’s what I aim to continue to do in 2010.

It’s official, I received my first legit publishing agreement last week from The Great American Poetry Show:

Excuse the deathly ill eye-bags, it's been a rough week, and focus on the CONTRACT.

See, this is a big deal. This was two years in the making for this ONE piece, a poem titled “Voyeur.” You may remember from previous posts that I’d been rejected over and over by TGAPS. In fact, I’d sent them over 40 pieces for consideration before they took this one. In fact even though they’d ACCEPTED “Voyeur” editor Larry Ziman was going to REJECT it anyway. (Read the short story here, in which Larry called me while I was in Birmingham seeing Amanda Palmer.) In fact, the other two editors STILL rejected the poem, but apparently Larry has the final say.

I tell you, it’s amazing what perseverance and, frankly, talent, can get you. After initialing in the appropriate places, writing my “short-bio” (which is always harder than it sounds) and sending proof copies of the poem off to West Hollywood, CA I can actually breathe a little bit. It’s also a prime example of the publishing world and the time lines on which it operates. Everyone always asks me “well when will you see it? why can’t you buy it now? well when will you know?” and it just isn’t that easy. From the time “Voyeur” was a “possibility” for Volume 2 of TGAPS until I received the publishing agreement in my hands over a year had passed. The publishing world isn’t quick and easy, by any means, whether you’re an amateur or a professional.

You have to sign with blue ink.

I’m glad they settled on “Voyeur” though. That poem has a special place in my heart as it’s one of my finest pieces of narrative poetry, in my opinion. “Narrative poetry,” as the name suggests, has a plot. It isn’t necessarily a graphic description of any one thing. It’s also a style that one of my biggest mentors, Ai, is impeccable at. She taught me how to be a better narrative writer and in fact, when I turned “Voyeur” in for workshop my senior year of college she moved it to the top of the stack. While the rest of the class couldn’t see the “artistic value” of a girl watching her boyfriend fuck another girl, Ai knew what I was trying to do with the poem and mood of the reader. It was a turning point in the class because suddenly people became a little more daring, a little more open to ideas. This is never a bad thing.

I might or might not have temporarily passed out.

Speaking of Ai, I’ll give you some breaking news: she was the first person to receive an official copy of my first chapbook, The Rough Chronicles of Bipolar Romance, last week. The opportunity arose and it seemed only appropriate.

Yes M. Orphans, my chapbook is finished and back from the printers, sitting in boxes and waiting for your eyes to devour them. They will be sold through Modern Orphan Designs, which I’ve closed temporarily until I re-launch sometime in the next couple of months. I will tell you this however, I’ve finished all the limited-edition “Modern Orphan” t-shirts and a few custom “compound” shirts, which have been hand sewn, burned, cut up, pinned and will buff up your science points. I have also made charms using recipes from the voodoo lady I was named after, and a few very, very limited Modern Orphan necklaces. In addition to all THAT I’ve finished a few one-of-a-kind mixed media art pieces using a few fan favorite poems as inspiration. Not many people know that I originally attended college on a full art scholarship that I gave up to pursue an English degree.

And if that wasn’t enough en route to my house as I type is a set of blending oils for a limited run of my special, secret oil scents you’ll fucking LOVE. (If you don’t remember, I posted a while ago about the line of oils I had years ago called Lascivious XIII – I blended them in my kitchen and sold them from my bedroom.) If you don’t know the word “lascivious” means ‘inclined to lustfullness” and “arousing sexual desire.” The olfactory system is often overlooked in terms of libido but trust me, if you smell good enough to eat, someone will want to eat you. I specialize in dessert scents and sugary musk.

Despite being deathly ill (two trips to urgent care in less than two weeks, a rapid weight-loss and perma-bags under my eyes) I’m trying to keep this thing going. I couldn’t do it without Ms. Marie. That needs said. She’s my right hand woman, web designer, bust builder, care taker and food maker. Love, love.

Hold tight Orphans–Lots of awesome coming your way courtesy of the owner of this goddamn-motherfucking-orphanage.

P.S. Current music: Marilyn Manson – Arma-goddamn-motherfuckin-geddon

grilled cheese, fries, red velvet cake and Merlot for breakfast.

I have two posts written and nearly ready to go next to this one. There’s just nothing in them, they’re full of buttercream. I’d like to think I’ve grown past faking it. But maybe not. As a good friend once wrote: “fake it till your dreams come true.” Part of me has a sinking feeling that said dreams will be sitting on the bench a long time while their half-formed shells play the court [jester].

I haven’t felt like connecting at all lately. Not on the internet, not personally, not creatively. I haven’t felt a strong connection with any of my muses in the last few months; instead I’ve been using fucked up medical insurance policies and missed prescription refills as creative fodder. Did you know it can cost in upwards of $1200 a month to stay “sane?” I didn’t until last Monday.

I’ve drowned myself in reading about manic-depression. Books like Touched With Fire: Manic-Depression and the Artistic Temperament and An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness by Dr. Kay Jamison and  Manic-Depressive Insanity and Paranoia by Dr. Emil Kraepelin (who’s considered to be the founder of contemporary scientific psychiatry, and one of the first to truly commentate on manic-depression as a legitimate disease). To break from the science-speak, I’ve been re-reading certain classics under scrutiny, namely The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath (duh) and The Voyage Out by Virgina Woolf, with breaks in between to satisfy the Taurus in me with The Hedonism Handbook.

You probably don’t give a shit about my reading list, but there you have it. The stones in my pockets keeping me under the ocean and away from humanity. There’s a war being waged up on shore, and I’m content to listen to it crumble from down here.

To get back to poetry-related things, I was in Birmingham, Alabama recently to see Amanda Palmer. The trip was part of a series I’ve yet to discuss on here, which I’m tentatively calling “The Art of the Oxymoronic Jetset.” (Or “A Pauper’s Jetset?” Regardless, stay tuned for details.) While I was waiting for room service to grace me with a glass of much needed Merlot and grilled cheese, the editor for The Great American Poetry Show, Larry Ziman, called me unexpectedly. To paraphrase, for length:

(click the cut to read the conversation)

(more…)