Damn, I’m inspired. An author like Stephen Graham Jones doesn’t cross my eyes every day, and because he did, I want to write like him. Thankfully, the internet is awesome for this, because all I did was Google his name with “on writing.” Up came any and all interviews he’s ever done.
One in particular was an Ask Me Anything—aka an AMA—on Reddit. I love AMAs. Sure, they’re self-promoting, but that’s how business works. Marketing. Whereas I hated selling myself as a therapist early on, now I don’t see myself as a snakey salesman being all conny.
Besides, the information Mr. Jones was offering wasn’t something he was selling anyway. So maybe I should unbunch my non-existent panties and get back to what I was saying.
Which is this: his advice on throwing out the first 10–20%, although jarring, not only had real-life experience behind it, but he explained why. And the why hit home, because it’s exactly what I’ve done. In my memoir, I’ve edited, re-edited, and shined up the first few chapters to the point that they’re no longer in their natural habitat. And a book—a book I want to read, a book I connect most with—is one that looks me in the eye, takes my hand, and roots around deep in my soul, all while keeping that penetrating gaze.
So yeah, I need to delete a lot.
And read another one of his books. Not right yet. I need space. A breather. A short read from a completely different genre. Horror is fine and all, but damn—my nightmare dreams have been on point this past week.
Jones is a writer who, as he mentioned in his AMA, writes his own fears into existence. He said it needs to scare him—otherwise, what’s the point? I love that. Someone else who writes for themselves first.
That really came across when he answered a question about his writing practice. He said he can’t not write. It’s his tank of water, the thing he gulps from—and I get it. Because it’s mine too.
If you’ve been showing up to read these—my little ramblings and such—I’m speechless. Why me? I think. You just keep showing up. You don’t have to, you know. But that you do—dang, it warms my heart.
This feels like our fort, built splintery cedar shake by shake, and it’s gotten pretty cozy, hasn’t it? I don’t thank well, I think. I get a bit embarrassed. And so I make it short and sweet—one of those fist-on-the-back, bro-hug kinds of thanks. Because if you really knew how much your presence means, I might get a little teary. I might get a little lost in my head, fearing the feeling of something so deep.
I just want you to know you matter. You matter so very much. To me. And I really hope you have a good day today, or tomorrow, or whenever you’re reading this—that you know you’ve made an impact on me as a writer. I once was someone who whiddled their pants at the thought of sharing my stuff publicly. I didn’t get this feeling secure here all by myself. Oh hell no! It was you. And you. And you. Like I said, you fucking brilliant, one of kind, sweet son of a gun, you matter.
Bro hug. Bye!
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 