It is important in the swirl of the dire nature of the world to take time and celebrate what victories come. This is merely that, if merely can fully express the happiness of the occasion.
I am published!
It is true I was published around this time a year ago, when the editing team at The Ana saw merit in my little story of a shipwrecked, clockmaking witch and included it in their eighth issue. What I hadn’t imagined at the time was first the level of positive reception that story would receive, of the honor of having it named that issue’s editor’s choice, and having the opportunity to read it in front of a zoom meeting. From there, the great power of connecting with creative minds and affirming one another’s place not only in the magazine, but also in creative spaces.
And then, the best news, that “The Clockmaker” would be selected for The Ana’s annual yearbook and would, therefore, be in print.
My story, on paper.
It’s an elating feeling, really. There is a swirling undercurrent of doubt that pervades writing—and so much of it by the brutal reality that is publication. Almost ¾ a year into querying one novel and gearing up to query another, and I think it’s remarkable anything ever happens. Even recently, I attempted to encourage a friend of mine through her period of writing doubt by explaining to her, despite the looming spectre about us, not to give up on it just because the publication process is itself difficult. We write because we want to, or have to, because there is value in creative endeavors and creative outlets. Art exists for itself, outside of the realms of monetization and validation. It should be its own kind of validation.
Another of my friends only needed a push to get back into writing and took to it with such vigor and drive, as she does most things, that she described the experience as rediscovering her soul. I think there’s truth to that, especially because creative people do have a tendency to put pieces of themselves into work.
Write what you know, as they say.
But, of course, there is that want to do something, for art to be shared and experienced by others. Quoting some of my own work, art is sympathy. It’s always been a way to capture and share a piece of the human experience and try to get others if not to understand than to relate. Social media has made it easier, but for writing the endgame of that kind of mass release to other minds remains publication.
And, yes, I have Telgora. I have two books and their pieces released into the world—the result of a grand passion project which I adore and sustain for all of the above reasons. There are two more books on the way, and plenty more work to be done on that front. Self-publishing is yet another grueling angle of the business side of this world, and the lessons I am learning there remain invaluable and instructive as my writing progresses day by day.
Through it all I do have my friends and family, and others writing alongside me. But there is always that personal, quiet, solitude nature of writing—that so often makes it feel as though one is crying out into the ether or that there may not be much, if any, impact. (I have referenced before my tendency to slip into the joys of melodrama before, right?) It is true, there are many who speak of writing as a uniquely solitary experience, of the terror of a blank page, and worse yet of edits (gasp!).
Creation, recreation, fining and refining, writing and rewriting. It’s all simple and fun, right?
I recently finished the sequel to one of my favorite books of recent years, one I will blog about in time. It stands in unique conversation, probably unintentionally, with another great recent read that I can only describe as frustrating. Together, they speak on identity, language and its role in empire, and on personhood and connection. The one which frustrated me made its grand case for the necessity of violence, especially as a tool of the imperialized.
The latter made an impassioned case for language as a tool of connection, and its importance in avoiding violence. Maybe there is still something of a naïve hope in that belief, but then isn’t there something of that which compels us to read, watch, and become invested in stories? Even tragic ones?
“Language is not so transparent, but sometimes we are known, even so. If we are lucky.”
So, at the end of the day, there is more than a little smile of my face knowing that, as I hold this story of a witch and her struggles with nature, prejudice, grief, and fantasy, that I screamed into the void and received an answer.
For those who wish to read my story, “The Clockmaker,” it can be found in Issue #8 of The Ana online, and in print in the 2022 Yearbook! I want to thank the entire team at The Ana for taking not one, but two, chances on my story and for all the work they put into their passionate creative endeavors. Please consider purchasing and supporting this wonderful magazine which supports so many fabulous artists in a range of mediums.