I’ve been treading a fine line the past few days, hence today’s haiku: Balance. I started posting the original series of Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar on EJO yesterday, and I’ve set a few up to post daily, then I’ll think about how often they will come.
The new series is moving on, but I need to reign myself back a little. Ezzie has developed a psychic connection with an 11/12-year-old neighbor boy who can see her henna barrier glow. He’s the only one who can see it, but not only that, it glows so brightly within his mind that he can see everything, all of her, anywhere, clear as day, even clearer at night. He knows where she is and what she is doing at all times. Isn’t that the dream of every boy that age? To see through a woman’s clothing? He feared it at first, but now he is imposing himself into her life. That’s something I’m going to have to deal with in a sensitive, non-pervy way.
I should explain that I don’t write these stories. They write themselves. I’m just the one who taps the keys. Yes, some aspects of my own life sneaks into them, but the characters have lives of their own, and I am only their slave. Some may start from real events, but move on to fantasy results. I don’t get anything out of it other than a release of pent up creativity. Very little of my work is published, a few poems, as well as a few short stories under my real name (which shall remain secret). For those who might be counting – precisely zero of you – as AM, I have 4 unfinished novels, one of which is nearing completion of the first draft (The Cult of Hahn). I have two novellas (Eirica Johnstone’s Obsession and Intolerance, the latter of which will appear self-published in my anthology of short stories, which is in its final revision now), as well as a few items serialized on my blogs (Ezzie, Bathing in the Hot Tub of my Mind), and lots of poetry.
Under my real name, I have a four short stories published (all now out of print) as well as some scholarly articles. I have 7 completed novels, one of which went deep in a competition to be published (I’m revising it again), and another that was rejected by a literary agent, partly because it wasn’t really his genre, and secondly it had a fatal flaw (my assessment) that bumped him out of the story. (I’ve given up on it.) Two of the completed novels are part of a series, in which 2 more novels are very advanced, and there is a novella that is a study for that series, which was accepted by a small publisher who went out of business without publishing it. I have three other novella that suffered the same fate while in production. One novel is in a rewrite stage (probably my best), and has a sequel coming. The main character is immortal, so any number of sequels could follow.
Why am I telling you this? It’s in the title of this blog:
Boondoggle, n, work or activity that is wasteful or pointless but gives the appearance of having value.
I had thoughts of making this my profession at one point, but it interferes with my real profession, which had finally started moving, but is now back in the doldrums. It’s possible that I may attempt to self-publish some of these as Anne Martin, (Rebecca Anne Martin), or maybe my other pseudonym (which will remain secret until such a publication happens).
Eh. This is making me too depressed. Fuck it.