Gossip [&] the Devil

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

[Parts: I, II, and III]

Billy @ the Rockwalk induction. "Lick clean the dirty fingers."

[Oh my how the drama is unfolding. You know, it's difficult writing this from such a young perspective. It's difficult to capture the true excitement with such jaded years behind me. Part of me wants to get back to that sparkle, the other part is glad I'm not so new. The other part of me realizes it's been for fucking balls ever since I've posted another part of this story and should probably do so.]

[Also I have exactly ZERO pictures from this time. It's as black and white as the words you're reading. There's a lesson in here somewhere.]

The Storm Trooper guard grunted at me again. I finally came back to earth long enough to push a picture toward Billy, some large, gaudy shot from the Adore era I’d torn from a Smashing Pumpkins calender given to me for my birthday years prior. [The autograph has since been stolen]. He scribbled his name and I watched his hands; hands that to this day I compare all other men’s hands to, no lie. Something about the shape and capability of them. The ability to hold ambition. He smiled again and I repeated a quiet, wavering “thank you,” before I was shuffled out the door. The freezing air held me, tears so hot they had no time to stick to my face, falling in fat drops down equally fat cheeks.

The whole thing took less than 10 minutes. Sometimes that’s all it takes. 10 minutes. 17 seconds. A hug. And like that you’re set down a path.

My inner voyeur couldn’t resist watching through the glass for a few more minutes as he greeted other fans, scowling at the security guards trying to shoo me away. I happily waved goodbye to those I’d met in line, most of which were crying too. I knew I’d never see them again, but the fact remained, we’d done this together. [Which is saying something. I'm not a fucking team player.]

In my elation, when we’d stopped to fill up for gas I bought chips and sodas for the way home. One split Yellow Sub sandwich over nearly a 24-hour period didn’t cut it. [Celebratory dinner?] However, as we approached I-35 we realized: We’d just spent our toll money.

Motherfucker.

I refused to spend the money Billy had given me, even if it meant an easier way home. We were too scared to blow the tolls since we didn’t have licenses to begin with, no sense in attracting cops.

Navigating the interstate was hard enough, but trying to find a way home without it was near impossible. We’d driven for a few hours, through weird, Friday the 13th-ish dirt roads, small sleepy towns and scary truck stops. Finally we came upon this little biker bar in the middle of fucking nowhere, desperate for directions. My boyfriend went inside and locked the car door, telling me to yell loudly if anyone came out and bothered me. [Remember we were 14 and 15, respectively.] The new Pumpkins single “Stand Inside Your Love” came on the radio. When he returned he was carrying a fistful of crumpled one-dollar bills.

“Hey this waitress gave me her tips because she felt bad.”

We’d ended up something like a hundred miles west of where we needed to be. But we found our way back. Things were going to be fine…

…until we were pulled over for going “too slow.” We’d been on the interstate exactly 15 minutes when we had to exit again so deputy fucking dog and his sidekick could blind us with a spotlight.

Imagine: two kids, nervous, trying to stay right between the lines, trying in vain to obey every traffic rule we could remember. Legally, the only way you can drive with a permit is if you have an of-age, licensed driver in your car. Since I was neither, we were fucked.

There’s always a price you pay for following your bliss. A balance has to be made.

First test of faith: keeping it in the face of crisis.

[Bonus round before part 5: tell me the frame of refrence for this tattoo and I'll send you a couple Gossip [&] the Devil pins before they hit the merch store. Email julie [at] devilgossip [dot] com with the answer. Family and those who attended the tattooing are not eligible. Don’t post in comments. I’ll fucking punt your first born onto the train tracks.]

It's a good thing I get regular pedicures. I have toes longer than some men's penises. (Peni?) That's kind of gross.

[Part 5 - later. But not as long as it took to post Part 4. I'd promise but then when I broke said promise you'd look at me like the father who keeps saying "next time" when you ask  him to come to your baseball games. I don't fucking like baseball.]

Cover artwork for I Am a Camera.

(This is the continuation of the interview I’ve conducted with singer/songwriter Jessica Allyn. This is part 2 of 3. Part 1 can be found here.)

Part 2 | I Am a Camera and the writing process:

JMT: As mentioned before, you said that Goodbye to Berlin by Christopher Isherwood inspired the concept for I Am a Camera. Do you have special preparations when writing lyrics for an album?

JA: I was lucky with this record. There wasn’t that much prep involved. I had always wanted to write a rock musical, but it seemed so far out of reach. And then one day everything fell into place by accident.

JMT: Personally I’ve always written extremely concrete and detailed stories, at times bordering on over-saturation. I like my reader to be fully aware of what is happening, usually because I’m fixing to make them uncomfortable. I noticed the majority of songs on I Am a Camera were written as almost mini-stories. Do you prefer to write in stories/specifics or leave them more ambiguous?

JA: I generally don’t have a plan when I sit down to write. Sometimes I just play, ad-lib and see what I come up with. For the most part it ends up in story form but I find that you can still be ambiguous (if needed). I am definitely an over-sharer and I have to agree with you; I often push it to the uncomfortable edge. Whether it’s in writing or performance I want the audience to feel everything.

JMT: I feel loss and anger are capable of creating much more colorful metaphors. Every artist that’s ever existed knows pain, anger and loss are classic lyrical and poetic themes. You’ve seemed to focus on anger and loss in particular for this record. Do you find those particular emotions to be more conducive for writing?

JA: You are not wrong. I don’t want to sound emo—and I know I’m going to—but anger, loss and abandonment are running themes in my life. I often feel like it’s all I know. I cannot write about something I don’t recognize. Happiness and love (whatever that word means to you) are almost foreign to me. That’s not to say I’m never happy or in love. I just don’t write about it. I don’t know that it’s the healthiest way to go about things but I just get more creative fuel from negative experiences.

JMT: Are you of the mind that a writer has to actually experience something in order to make the story they’re writing believable?

JA: For me, yes. I think some people can be inspired solely by their imagination and I think it’s incredible. But I know I get fuel from real life experience. It feels honest and I like that. So that’s how I write.

JMT: Have you always felt a drive to write down the things you observe? Moreover, observation doesn’t necessarily equal personal experience. You said that writing from real-life experience makes for better writing. Does being so close in perspective ever pose a problem?

JA: I’ve documented just about everything I’ve experienced (personal and otherwise), completely oblivious to fact I was doing it. It wasn’t until a year ago that I realized I had been living my life as a camera. But I’ve been journalistic and writing poetry since I was a child. I think having a tormenting and often lonely childhood provoked the writer in me. It was a way to release. I’ve spent a lot of my life behind a bedroom door just writing. I think I often found myself appalled by human behavior and wanted to express it, but never had anyone to talk to. Writing became that shoulder to cry on in a way. It does become difficult at times to have such an “up close and personal” perspective when writing. It’s hard to not sound biased or cross the line sometimes. I’m still learning how to make it work.

JMT: For an album does the theme usually come first or does your writing tend
to dictate the theme?

JA: My writing definitely dictated the theme of this record, although I generally don’t like to pigeonhole myself to one specific theme or concept when writing an album. With I Am a Camera that Christopher Isherwood line described me perfectly and a few days later I found old scraps of paper with lyrics on them. Thus the concept was born. I was going to go in chronological order, a timeline of my life from age ten to current day, as a camera. This was a very specific project; I don’t think my future projects will be as one note.

(Follow-up: Jessica has since said that I Am a Camera is the first half of what will be a full rock musical: “I think in this case it’s truly concept alone. It’s a rock musical. Or, the first half of what will be a full musical. I really wanted to try out a few songs, see how people reacted and then build from there. So, this was definitely in all it’s insanity and glory, a full concept album. There is possibility of a part two.”)

JMT: Ironically, on your website you mention your attention span is quite short. Does that affect the recording process?

JA: Oddly enough, no. When I’m passionate about something, when I say I’m going to do something, I do it. I immerse myself in it. It becomes my life.

(part 3, including discussion on technology and how it affects artists as well as mental illness, will be posted tomorrow, so check back!)

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)

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