I’ll set the scene: I wake up to see golden light filtering through my little log house windows that turns into a bright morning. I am feeling AWESOME –and I decided I like that word even if it is over-used because, y’allses, sometimes things are just AWESOME and that’s that. Yep, I wake up and I’m on top of the world! I couldn’t wait to rise and start my day. I turned on my laptop, grinning, sipped my deep creek blend, happy go lucky wheee! Then I looked at something to do with my “author life” and suddenly the room darkened, my shoulders slumped, my coffee didn’t taste as good.
Well, my friends, that pissed me off. It pissed my ass off but good. There I woke up feeling like a million-goddamned-bucks and after looking at one little thing, one tiny little bitty thing, I slumped in my seat and began that litany of, “I wish . . . .” and “If only . . . .” and “Why can’t I/don’t I . . . .”
Yesterday I watched Dr. Oz and he said, with a blaze in his eye and determination round his cute little quirky mouth: “I’m mad! And I’m taking my name back!”
Well, I’m mad and I’m taking back my life! I’m doing what the fuck I want to — including writing out that cuss word — and let the chips fall where they may.
Ya know, I’m 55 years old. I’ve lived more than half my life, if I consider that 110 is pretty damned old and not sure anyone’s made it there yet. I’ve paid a lot of dues in my 55 years. Enough dues I can say, “I’m doing what the hell I want.”
On my bookshelf, and on the bookshelf of my readers, are four novels, a novella, and beyond that, I’ve had some other shit published. When am I supposed to say, “That’s AWESOME, Kat! You’ve DONE it! You are AWESOME!” Huhn. Kicking my ass there, too. I’ve paid some dues in my writing life. Since 2009, three years, I’ve had four novels
and a novella published. I worked my ass off. I can say now: I done did it. I done kicked some ass in the novel-writing arena. And, to boot, I am garnering some AWESOME reviews. Yeah! But do I want to constantly obsess over every goddamned review, every goddamned Amazon sale, every goddamned royalty check I receive? Hells-to-the-No. I want to sit back a bit and say, “I done AWESOME!” I kicked some ass! I want to stick my hand behind my back and give myself a pat, and then get back to doing what I adore, what I love best: the goddamned writing.
And guess what? Sometimes I have a potty mouth. Yeah! Did you get that already? Ask my brothers. Ask my closest friends. Ask my GMR. Sometimes I cuss like a dirty-mouthed sailor. I like it. It takes the edge off stuff. Like if I’m frustrated. Or pissed. Or happy. Or sad. Or delighted. Or AWESOME. Now, I try to tone it down because I do have some class you know. And I know how to use other words because I really am kindee intelligent. I know how to act in a polite society. But, son of a bitch, sometimes I just feel like cussin. And I have been cleaning up my blog posts and twitter feeds and facebook updates. Taking out all those nasty lil words that would make my grandmother blush—except my Maw Maw cussed like a sailor, too. Huhn. Well, sometimes I’m going to cuss.
And guess what else? After those five ‘literary-embraced’ novels/novella, I’m writing me a kinda supernatural-romance and the only one apologizing for it is: Me! Yeah. “Whatchoo writing, Kat?” Me: “Um, oh, it’s this book that has some supernatural stuff in it. *whispers: and a little romantic leanings* but it still has some literaryishness to it. Um, teehee, um. Hey! What’s that shiny thing over there! *kat runs off*” Yeah, I’m writing it and I am having fun. I even get to write about SEX! Whooowheee! And I found out I like to write about a little bit of rough sex, not romantical sweet sex. The stuff that would make my Maw Maw blush, except she was kind of . . . well, my grandmother weren’t no saint and she’d probably like reading it were she still alive. She’d probably laugh and slap her knee. She could probably give me some tips, bless her heart.
Let me tell you this, too, y’allses. I can yappity do dah day about my books till Kingdom-Damn-Comes, but do you know how fucking boring that is? To constantly yap yap talk talk talk talk talk about that shit? I have other things that make me feel AWESOME! Like, my photography, and working out—I love health and fitness. I have a granddaughter and step-grandkids, and I live in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I have AWESOME friends and when I’m around certain friends, they get the full on Kat jittery-ass chaotic swirly headed tornadic ALL of me and they don’t seem to mind a’tall.
And you want to know something funny? The most books I ever sold were when I didn’t know a goddamned thing about “marketing/promo” –when my first book was published. I was worse than I am now about that, folkses. Tender Graces shot up to Number 1 on Amazon paid list over goddamned The Help and I didn’t even know it till my editor told me—and I was just dumb enough that I didn’t go all out talking about it. I just went “huhn, so I guess that means ebooks aren’t the debbil like I thought?” Luck and timing most times is how a book sells anyway. So if I don’t feel like running off at my mouth about my books, then I won’t. If I feel like sharing some news, then I will. If I don’t want to do booksignings, I won’t. If I want to do an event I think is AWESOME, I will.
If I don’t have time to go social networking–writing/using it or visiting it– I’m going to stop feeling guilty over it. Side’s, Hons, it’s to where I am reading the same things over and over and over in social networking and wondering if there’s anything new, and that includes my old ass. Then again, I’m awed and amazed at so many of y’all out there who Do This Thang Right in social networking – Hot Damn Y’all! But, even so, ain’t nothing going to stop me from my writing. That’s the sweet spot. That’s my important part. Even if it means I lose “stats” or “numbers” in social networking. Yep.
And even though I’m a bit of a grammar-fanatic, I didn’t care about my grammar when I wrote this–I mean, come on! I said fuck! In for a penny . . .
Let me tell you: when it comes to marketing/promo/our books/our careers/whatever, most of us are squiggly shapes trying to fit in round, square, or triangle holes. Folkses, there are very very few round, square, and triangle hole people in this world—what I mean is, while we are basically all “the same” human race, we all have STUFF and that STUFF about us makes us squiggly. So us squiggly shapes just need to goddamned stop trying to fit in those holes and either cut out our own squiggly holes, or say, “fuck it” and don’t fit in anywhere.
And you know what? I hate cauliflower—I mean, what’s the point of it? It tastes like shit and looks boring. And guess what else, I have a slight eating disorder that manifests itself in a fear of food. And I hate people touching me unless I really trust them. And I don’t want my neck and shoulders massaged when I go to have my hair washed and cut. And I wish I could read your WIP, but I can’t—I really do miss helping writers in that way, but now I have to constantly say: No. Now I say it without feeling like shit: No, my publishers don’t want me to and, no, I don’t have time to anymore because my spare time has become precious to me—I’ve paid some dues, y’all. I’ve sacrificed family and friends and fun for this writing life because it is AWESOME and I love it, but, my spare time now needs to go to those who love me and have supported what I do, and to things I do beyond my writing/author life.
I love working out and taking my body to the limit. I want to be an Olympic gymnast in my next life. I feel stronger and sexier than I have in . . . forever. Dang, I might think,
why couldn’t I feel this way when I was younger. Well, what the hell? I’m not supposed to feel this way in my fifties and beyond? Can if I wanna. And I do.
I put everything I have into my books. I mean, I work my ass off when I write my books. I am sincere. I am kicking my ass. I am doing the best goddamned writing I know how and they become books I can feel proud of. And some gonna like em and some ain’t and some never even gonna hear about me and some will love love love me. That’s how that shit goes. We can’t all be Super-Stars, and even if we become a Super-Star, it could last and it could not. Better we have something that makes us feel AWESOME whether we are up or down or somewhere in the between.
There’s a whole danged ole world of experiences out there and I want to touch taste feel do be. I don’t want to be settin’ here in my little log house boo-hoo-de-hooing about how my books ain’t on the New Yawk Times Best Seller lists (and if they ever do go there, then yippity kai yay little doggies for me!) or how I wish someone in some big ass tower up there would pay attention to me and how AWESOME my books are because I’m so AWESOME a writer! And really, who am I to tell all y’allses how to write or market or promo or even if you love cauliflower as much as I think it sucks, well, get ye to eating up some cauliflower! You can have my portion.
Yup, from here on out, I’m taking back my life. I’ve carried a lot of responsibilities on my shoulders for many many years. I’ve worked my ass off in every job I’ve ever had, including this one. I’m going to do what the fuck I want to from now on.
Hold on, you might say. “Everything you want to?” Well, now, y’allses—you know I ain’t going to go full head-long into stoopid! I can’t fall off the grid, or live off locusts and honey. I still have to pay bills on time. I still will write AWESOME books cause that’s what makes me happy and is in line with DOING WHAT THE HELL I WANT!, and of course, I will always make my deadlines. And treat people with respect, unless they don’t deserve respect and then I’ll ignore their asses. But, other’n that, the way’s pretty much open.
I can blog when I want to, or not. I can twitter if I want to, or not. I can be cranky-pants and show my ass if I want to. I’m a grandmother for gawds sake and ain’t old people supposed to be all weird, like, “Hey, she’s just old, that’s why she’s doin’ that shit.” It’s a license to show your ass! Omg! Genius!
And, I think I’m a fairly gifted writer. I’m healthy. I’m happy. I’m AWESOME because I kick ass even if it’s my own.
Now, I’m going back to work on my book, and then I’m going to set on the porch and rock a while, maybe drink a vodka tonic. I’m going to enjoy what I have left of my life after working my ass off for many many years, and even after long ago putting up with people who stomped on me, told me I was nothing—before I knew better, I didn’t do better, now I been knowing better for quite some time. Best to do it before you are old so your oldness is AWESOME!
I’m going to feel AWESOME for what I’ve accomplished. I’m going to stop that stupid shit I do of comparing myself to others’ successes so that I take a kick-ass morning and turn it into a “Woe is me” morning. Who loves a whiner? Not I. I can’t stand a whiner. I ain’t no whiner, so why I been whining? Huhn.
Kicking ass one ass at a time—starting right-cheer with my own. And if anyone is offended by my cussing or my honesty or my AWESOMEnessesss, then, well, Dang, what can I say? I yam who I yam: sometimes I’m a cynic, a tough-ass, a smart ass, and for those who know me best, they know I’m loyal and a pretty good friend, and I’ll support the hell out of writers in the ways I can. But, really, I am completely out of my mind and out of my element, a discombobulated hot mess, most the time. Whee haw!