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Tag Archives: writing

I promised myself I was going to get better at promoting my work. However, what with being on vacation and shaking off the sting of the latest rejection (such is a writer’s life), I’ve been a little slack on that resolution.

With that being said, I am super excited to be back at C2E2 this year! C2E2 has been a great home con for me over the last 5 years, and ReedPop has been a welcoming company in terms of promoting diversity and inclusion of marginalized nerds and geeks. As it has already stated by someone MUCH MUCH more influential than I, everyone gets to be a geek!

With that in mind, here is my C2E2 schedule.

On Friday at 6:45 pm, I will be moderating You Have Died From Exposure . We will be talking about the importance of equally compensating marginalized geeky creators as a market would and does those of the cishet white male persuasion.

On Saturday at 4:15 pm, I will be back with the Black Nerd Girl’s Journey and More Than Warriors & Weather Witches crew moderating Behind The Parable And The Power. We will be celebrating the black women/NBs behind our favorite stories of the ‘Verse, how far we’ve come, and how far we still have to go. We will also be kicking off this panel with a discussion about Yona Harvey, the first black woman to write Storm!

If you can make it, I hope to see you there!

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At least that is what I hope. Because I abhor self-promotion. Abhor it with a Katarina Strafford-level of intensity. Do you remember Kat’s rant against attending Bogey Lowenstein’s party? That’s me how much I rant against pushing my work [outside of this blog] on social media platforms, all the while trying not be come off like a pretentious asshat to friends and colleagues who seem to dive into this pool with little or no effort. Only recently did I accept [not realize, because I did that a long time ago] that I cannot escape promoting my work if I want to continue with it. So here I am, addressing, unpacking and trying to put away the reasons why I stop short of promoting what I do, even and especially if it is good work.

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(TW: Mentions of violence and rape)

I’m pretty open about how I do not expect to come out of 2017 alive. I didn’t expect to survive more than a week past my birthday, aka the day after the election aka the Day Hope Died. I ask myself constantly when those racist/sexist/homophobic shit stains will finally get me. Every time I get on my train. Every day that I walk into my office building. Each week when I host my writing group.

When will I wind up with a bullet in my head from a trigger-happy cop?

When will I be left beaten, brutalized and/or raped along the riverside promenade?

When will I be pushed off of a CTA platform for having the nerve to exist in public?

The answer: I do not know, for this is something over which I have no power. I do have the power to do one thing:

I can tell my story.

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Well, shit.

Wait, let me try that again.

My first Readercon experience provided me with a wide berth of raw emotions, ranging from the elation that sprang from meeting and reconnecting with some of the most creative and progressive minds in the industry, to fiery rage at the bastion of New England Liberal Racism that still permeates the northeast, subsiding on the elitist fallacy that ‘smart people can’t be racist’.

How’s that? You want more, huh? I shouldn’t be surprised. I made a name for myself with my Twitter rants over that weekend on the much-needed progress needed at Readercon when my intention was to lay low and collect data all submarine-style and what not.

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It’s the epiphany that kills you. Not the slow pain that comes from the withdrawal. It may feel like that sinking feeling is going to be the end of you. I can’t say that I fault your logic. That instant in which you perceive reality to come crashing down on you because the pain and emptiness are unbearable. That instant when you can start to feel your stomach eat you from the inside because it is so desperate to get its juice on the sweet nectar that made it forget how hungry it was in the first place. The tremors? The muscle spasms? The soul-screeching self-degradation? No, that’s just the withdrawal. The withdrawal won’t kill you. You will just wish that it did.

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