I asked if they would take a look at my work, free to download!
And I sent the link.
Bad, bad Jenny Dreadful.
Lest anyone skew my stance - I'll make it clear. I own no T.V., no camera phone with gadgets, do not twitter, would rather typewrite if monetary circumstances allowed. I get my news from the radio driving to and from work, and get the weather from co-workers or simply looking outside. It works for me. I'm 26 - so this stance is not very popular among my generation - unless you're growing dreads and bike to work in -30 below to save the environment - neither of which I do.
So. What mistake did I make when approaching this local writing collective I stare through the glass at, like a little Oliver Twist outside a bakery?
I was quite simply told: I was courted by that monster, that whore of Babylon, lulu. Maker of free downloads and print copies. I was seduced. BY CORPORATE BOOK MAKING! AHHHHHH!!!!
I should have sent them a chapbook, bound with my hair. Duh. And made the cover in a darkroom at odd hours while subsisting on a trust fund. Never mind my working poor roots (and bills) that demand both a full time and a part time job. I should have cured the pages of my chapbook with my sweat. I should have printed the copies off the printer I don't own.
Idiot. If possible, I should have used my own hide to carefully mark down those wrought words, mixing blood in with ink!
Needless to say, I was given a very lengthy e-mail on the evils I hath committed, and very succinctly put in my place. Nor would they use my (eww!) dirty chapbook, a virtual whore coming to infect their computers and very way of life!
Thank *insert deity of choice* for people like R.S. Bohn. Thank fucking god. She agreed to view my chapbook and write a review. And she lived to tell the tale. Right here: Look!!! And she didn't even get scabies.
I leave you with a little piece I nattered off today. She's been haunting my insides, so I let her out to peek around.
The long haired Jewess of Morning
Fills my cup with bitterness, and keeps
loneliness as a kinswoman. At the coffee shop
with my clasped cup I am not the only
supplicant whose throat works for the
hot punishment of roasting beans, but oh,
Sweet Jewess, mine is the only throat who
works to simply breathe you too.