Stalling Out on My Next Manuscript

It's time to start compiling my next full-length collection. The thought has rattled around my brain for almost a year now as the poems are approaching finality, and a nebulous shape can be discerned if I squint exceptionally hard. But the progress bar is still on 0% after a cavalcade of months.

Will my second literary collection be different enough from Domestic Bodies? Some poets write around similar themes on repeat and are loved for it. Others do the same and are lambasted as one-trick ponies propped up by an archaic publishing industry. Maybe, since I'm not one of the "hot" poets, I won't have to worry about that particular criticism. But it would suck to grow complacent and stale without realizing it.

Domestic Bodies was my second full-length poetry manuscript ever compiled with Blighted Feast being the first (though most iterations ride the line between chapbook and full collection). After finding a publisher for the former and multiple "almosts" for the latter, I found myself stuck in revision/recompile hell for Blighted Feast. I kept circling the idea of the right press showing up if I just had the correct version of the book. Now, there are fifteen versions that barely differ from each other on my computer and yet another one I'm proclaiming the "ultimate, super final version with caveats." Mostly, I just love speculative poetry and don't want to give up... but might not have a choice soon.

What if I'm only "good enough" for one book? What if every other manuscript I put together is just sixty slices of failure in a trenchcoat? I have numerous failed chapbooks in a graveyard folder with a battery-operated candle casting the only light—a set of corroding double-As in its butt. What if every other book becomes a tombstone? I'm probably about two-thirds of the way through my lifespan, so time isn't necessarily on my side.

Sometimes, I think my next collection should contain Word Search Verse. I love the concept and truly believe there's an audience for a hybrid collection that contains simple puzzles and poetry in tandem. Presses probably won't even consider a collection of it, however; I already have a difficult time finding a speculative publisher that doesn't treat poetry like voluntarily contracting syphilis. And yet, the temptation persists. 

Have you ever delayed starting your next book? How did you get over it? 

New Vtuber Model

About four years ago, I commissioned a PNGtuber model that looked like me (which I'm ancient enough to think of as an avatar). I loved her... still do. She makes creating videos on YouTube a bit easier since I don't have to get on camera. 

She's mostly static, outside of blinking and opening her mouth when I talk. The simplicity works well when I'm playing the rare video game on my channel, but it's not the most captivating when the only things I have for my viewers to look at are my model and (often) slides during my "talking" videos. I wanted something different.

Commissioning a model with more movement and toggles to switch outfits or have emotions can cost hundreds or thousands of dollars. I thought I'd save for a model that moved on a loop (a .gif) that still had the ability to blink and talk, but even that was too pricey. 

Many content creators don't use customizable vtuber models because they want more uniqueness or everything to their specifications. "Close enough" doesn't cut it for them. If you need a certain body type or species, it can be even harder to find among someone else's limited options. But an artist on Etsy has a solution for femmes with fat bodies. 

Through much trial and error, I have a new model. No, she doesn't look precisely like me and doesn't come with a wheelchair. But she has some upper body movement I can guide with mouse tracking, four different outfit toggles, and even a few emotions. 

It took me about twenty hours to get her to this point using a program I had no prior experience with. I almost gave up twice; I'm the furthest thing from tech-savvy. The hardest part of the process was understanding I couldn't reuse the same article of clothing in more than one outfit or any recoloring I did affected the other outfit when I toggled it back on her. 

All of my frustrated tears aside, I like how she turned out. Now, I just have to script the videos I want to use her in using my last three spoons and a bent spork. No problem!

Is the Use of Big Words Ableist?

BookTok spurs some interesting literary discussions. Want to find an amazing romantasy? The creators have you covered. Is there a deeper layer of symbolism to the rollercoaster in that new YA mystery? Someone in the comments just wrote two paragraphs about it under the book review. Do you skip prologues or only read dialogue? Well, so do a fair amount of BookTokers... unfortunately.

The most prevalent topic from the BookTok community as of late: Authors should use smaller, more common words in their stories. Certain content creators are arguing that ten-dollar words are unnecessary, regardless of whether the words are the most accurate for a character's feelings or situation. Then, the conversation shifted to ableism. 

Is an author ableist for using big words? 

No. Everyone knows a term or phrase someone else doesn't, it doesn't make them ableist to use it. A writer shouldn't have to run a poll for their audience in order to put a specific word in their story. It's incredibly simple to find a definition nowadays, even if someone doesn't have the red, Collegiate Webster's Dictionary with the indents sitting on their coffee table. If a book is too frustrating overall, readers can (and will) find something else they're interested in. Disabled adults can choose to look up words or DNF like every other reader. To use disabled readers as an excuse to pressure authors into capitulating with certain BookTokers' demands is baloney (and has similar echoes to pro-AI arguments).

It seems people who don't want to put in effort or learn something often use the disabled community as a shield. I suppose it's a clue for how they see us. After all, they're not protesting the Olmstead memo with us or petitioning their city councils for better access at local parks. We're a convenient monolith that can't understand much or create anything on our own worth a damn, according to them.

Are there situations where using big words can be ableist?

Yes, though not in the realm of creative writing.

A doctor intentionally using difficult terminology after being asked for a layman's explanation of treatment options in order to keep a disabled person out of the discussion for their own medical care is ableist. Doctors will sometimes refuse to talk to anyone but a caregiver, even if the disabled patient is willing and able to make a choice for themselves. 

Caregivers can also engage in this behavior, shutting a person with an intellectual disability out of any discussion about their future by refusing to use words the person knows. Bad caregivers see crips as incapable in every aspect because needing help with some things equals (in their minds) unable to decide/do most things. Or it takes less effort for a caregiver to do what they want without consulting us; it's harder for them to get us ready to go to the beach when they could just keep us at home for the day... for example.

And don't get me started on bureaucrats.

An end note on vocabulary:

Limiting the lexicon of people will, eventually, make our ability to express ourselves less precise. The majority of the time, people don't select a word based on how many letters it has but simply because it's the best one for the situation. What happens when we keep demanding shorter words, ad nauseam? We begin to lose nuance. We erode away beauty and raw complexity from the mountain of human emotion, thought, and experience to a pebble on the tongue. It might be easier to swallow, but your ability to see the horizon as you climb is gone. It's a pretty steep price for not wanting to look something up or engage with new ideas.

Olmstead Clarification: Segregation

Imagine you're a child: You have loving parents, maybe some siblings, possibly a spotted brown mutt that you chase fireflies with, and definitely some wild dreams of who you will be when you grow up. You struggle in school, all subjects, but your parents reassure you (and themselves) that you'll catch up. But you don't. So, they go to a doctor and are told you will never be "normal" and that an institution is best for "someone like you." It's decades before the Americans with Disabilities Act is signed. You have no access to special education. Community services aren't available. There is no therapy outside of an institution. So, your parents agree. 

You grow up bouncing between facilities. Your parents become elderly. You imagine your old pal (who you missed out on years with and didn't get to say goodbye to) chasing fireflies between heaven's clouds. You don't get to have a romantic partner, learn to drive a car, get a job, or even choose the color of the sheets you sleep on. But, somewhere in the long stretch of gray, the doctors agree you're well enough to live in your community. 

It's years between their decision to release you and your freedom because there is still, after decades, no programs to help you reintegrate. There are no services to have someone come in and assist you with the few things you can't manage alone. Now, your parents aren't even around. 

You have to go to court to be free. In 1999, the Supreme Court sides with you. They rule that "segregation of persons with disabilities constitutes discrimination in violation of title II of the Americans with Disabilities Act." You finally get a chance at a better life. Your court case is known as Olmstead, and it helps a lot of disabled people stay in their homes and communities.

*~*~*

This month, a memo put out by the Justice Department says the integration mandate in Olmstead can't be enforced and that states aren't required to provide services (like in-home healthcare) to ensure disabled people can stay in their communities. In short, if the state a disabled person lives in decides it will no longer provide care, there are few options that will exist outside of an institution.

Some people will say: Chill out, a memo isn't a law. 

It's not, but it is permission. Permission to cut programs to "save money." Permission for a school to gut their special education department (something that might happen anyway now that the Department of Education is being scattered among other departments). Permission to allow private investors to build more institutions. It's permission for businesses to not make their buildings ADA-compliant because more disabled people will be afraid to "make waves" now that their place in their community is exceedingly tenuous. 

The memo combined with targeted attacks on the program that pays family members who are caregivers and the expanded work requirements for people getting assistance (even those suffering from cancer) can be seen as nothing but the intentional dismantling of protections and the construction of harmful roadblocks. They want disabled people in for-profit institutions, four of us crammed into a room meant for two, making stockholders sweet dividends. Out of sight like decades ago, sentenced to life for the crime of being a cripple.

Poems and Scraps

 

I wrote over twenty-five poems for April's Poem-a-Day Challenge (another year I didn't "win"). When I was editing the viable pieces earlier this month, I had a brief flare of panic; I couldn't remember any other poems I wrote this year. Do I only pen new poems during challenge months now? Would I still be a "real poet" if I only had significant output two months out of twelve?

And then I took the travel notebook out of my purse.

And then I looked at the drafts section of my email.

And then I paged through the steno book I keep on my couch.

Although I'm not creating as much as I'd like, I've definitely written more than April's bounty. I just used to be better at transferring over scraps and scribbles to a master document. I jot down verses on van rides and forget as pain and brain fog gobble my attention. Ideas are scratched onto a torn page and then tucked inside a book as I get ready to sleep. I become coordinator and participant in a private, poetic scavenger hunt.

I edited around seventeen poems and two flash fiction pieces this month with a few difficult ones requiring more marination time in their own document. At least five of those were written prior to April. Several other poems aren't publishable in literary magazines but would make good Instagram posts.

It's a relief, knowing that I'm still getting words down (regardless of how slow it may be) year-round. 

Dinner Party Minus You: Word Search

Notes before beginning:

1. My sister, Crafter on Wheels, interviewed me for her channel. It's audio only but can be found by clicking here. 

2. My YouTube channel is filled with poetry shorts, but I occasionally cover other topics like the Shy Girl debacle.

3. "Dinner Party Minus You" was first published in Red Rock Review.

Semi-Bedbound Writer

I lie on my left side over 19 hours a day with few exceptions. The old sponge mattress on my living room floor has a permanent imprint after years of holding me longer than my husband can. A small, white bench I've had since childhood is my dining table, nail salon, craft space, writing desk, and occasional seat. 

Chronic pain has always permeated my life. My hips have grown inward. My shoulders and elbows crack and crunch. My knees are unhappy after decades of crawling. Muscles are tense and spasm, causing me to jerk when concentrating on a physical task. Arthritis, though present since my teen years, started infiltrating my hands after my 40th birthday. My back aches for no discernable reason. 

Chronic fatigue is a newer partner. It found me after sepsis a decade ago and refuses to depart. A few hours out of my apartment means days of recovery—I sleep more, have increased pain, and battle brain fog. Visitors and sitting up in a chair without leaving home can also make things worse. Even editing or responding to emails can drain my battery.

*****

Each task I do requires planning. If I go out on Monday for three hours, I can't schedule anything else until around Thursday (Wednesday, if I'm extremely lucky). Working on a story for multiple hours a day for two or three days means a persistent headache and reduced ability to focus. And sometimes, I can do everything "right" and still wake up too stiff to move or with a low-grade fever I can't explain.

As writers, we're told not only to tell great stories or religiously edit our poems, but to network and get on various social media platforms multiple times a week. My YouTube channel suffers because I can't make the videos I want without sacrificing something else. Do I reschedule a doctor's appointment to write a new video script? Do I stop making holiday cards to create Instagram posts? If I have five useable "outdoor" hours a week and ten I can use on tasks mostly lying down, where do I put my energy? 

*****

One of the things people don't talk about with chronic illness is the grief and anger that comes with it. I lost two of the people I love the most because I'm unable to babysit during first shift for months at a time. Projects, no matter how much I try, rarely get off the ground. A job would hospitalize me within a couple weeks. Medical appointments are usually a third (sometimes half or all) of my monthly outings. 

There is so much I want to experience. So much I want to do. I've pivoted around obstacles to the point of dizziness, tempered my expectations to the point of near nothingness. And still, my heart breaks. The world goes by without me. People learn to drive, move to new cities, change careers, travel, and I stay put... collecting diagnoses like baseball cards. White walls creep closer. Screens are my windows to the world. 

I try to hold onto the good: My husband, my two siblings, a safe place to live, beautiful music, a few (mostly online) friends, and stories that take me out of my bed and towards adventure. I tell myself that no one knows what can happen tomorrow (though the last decade of tomorrows hasn't boded well). I look out the window as farmland and small towns fly by on the way to another blood test and pretend I'm on a road trip. I write another blog post lying on my left side.