Return of the Complainer

Sweet Jesus on a plaid donkey! That was a long hiatus!

I return to you on the eve of February bringing glad tidings: one, I am, in fact, not dead.

Two, I’m still writing, of course.

Three, I finished my Nano with time to spare in November and came out of it with a first draft. Now, have I edited that draft? Of course not. But that’s only because I’ve been busy writing elsewhere. I have a short story coming out in New South here in a few months — the project was delayed by COVID, go figure — and luckily for all of us, some of my old magazine contracts are coming up on their end. You know what that means! Rights revert back to me and I can post them so you, the people, can enjoy them.

So that got me thinking. I should make a haven or hub for my writing. And so I’ve done it. If you feel like reading some of my work — currently working on a story called Come, Thou Almighty! , posted chapter by chapter — or just supporting me, you can head over to my kofi below. Just click that black button. There you’ll find stories, OSTs for stories, some of my more audacious writing tips, et al.

That being said, I will return to writing here as well! With a more regular schedule. Seasonal depression will not defeat me. The show must go on.

Creating Space

So I’m in the middle of revisions for my last completed MS and I had to not only rethink elements of the story but elements of how I’m creating the story. I needed a soft, welcoming place to put myself through the ringer again. And what with the timeliness of my favorite season’s arrival….

My side of our home office.

Revamping my office space! Pumpkin and book-scented candles, soft lighting, new chair, new atmosphere. I figured to change the work, you change the workspace.

It’s hard to think about changing something from the inside out, really. Revision has always been an unwieldy word for me because the scope of it can be so large. But I’m no stranger to it. We did it all the time back in MFA land, back when profs told you there was nothing to salvage but the characters’ names. (Ugh.) You get through it.

My agent gave me tons of extremely helpful line notes in the doc itself and also a long write-up. From there, I went into my notebook and wrote out in bullet points the main changes suggested, and then wrote a side of it that were the main changes I wanted to make. Then, I circled everything that needed to change for it to work.

The hard part about getting revision notes from anyone — whether they’re your agent, editor, critique buddy, prof — is that you’re not always going to agree. You, as the creator, have to examine why you don’t agree.

Is it because you really think it’s fine?

Is it because you’re being lazy?

Or is it pride?

And it’s a new ask every time you look at a problem. At some point, the revision verges, carving its own path. You can think of it a lot like building a person; the first time you built that person, when they rose from the workbench, and you told them to walk, they almost fell down because their legs weren’t strong enough to carry them — low muscle mass, or the heart isn’t pumping enough blood. In this case, for this MS, the limbs seem to all work, and the face is cute, but there’s a real problem in the heart.

The heart of the story changes a lot. If you go in and fiddle with the heart, you’re also fiddling with arteries and blood flow. So many new things pop up. The great part is this is more about building than tearing down, so it is in scope easier than if I had to, say, cut 20,000 words. (Always low-ball the first time around.)

I find myself playing Can You? daily, too, which tells me I’m going in the right direction. What also makes me smile is seeing the story get better in front of my very eyes. A second go-around gives you a chance to embolden characters and let them go off and do things they may have been too scared to do the first time, or you were too scared to let them do.

There’s a fine line — for the changes you know the story needs but may not actually be fun to do. The challenge then becomes: you need to make them fun to do. You’ve almost got to. If you aren’t having fun writing it, no one is having fun reading it. Slog for you is slog for everyone.

There are a few things I hold back on, because I know I’m right about them. It’s certainly possible I didn’t express them correctly, and it’s also my duty to say them more clearly. But when I heard those words the first time, I knew they were true by the way they felt.

Wish me luck! We are 100 pages in and counting.

New Story Alert

Hello, hello! We are due to get back on schedule here in a minute. Upcoming, the next in the Hintlord series will be on characters who are not you, and how to craft them! A request from a regular reader! So look forward to that. But before that:

Click here to read my new story over at Crack the Spine.

Impossibly Tender by yours truly is about a man who negotiates fatherhood in the worst possible way. :)

Summer Update

The summer is GRUELING. Beat after beat of sun on my poor body. I mostly stay inside, these days.

Rather than complain about my sequestering during Corona — as I am wont to do — I will list the good things of this week:

1. I finished my MS and sent it off to my agent. (!!)

2. I have a short story coming out next week here.

3. My dog got a bath and he smells like a toasted marshmallow.

Things aren’t always as bad as they seem. In other news, I’m vastly cutting down my involvement with social media, and soon I will be deleting my Twitter account. I never really use it anyway and the amount of bullshit discourse I see on there only makes me angry. You can’t fight everyone, I’ve learned. You can only put a box over your head and pretend they don’t exist.

In other other news, I’m continuing with my Hintlord series, so if there’s something writerly you’d like me to discuss, hit me up in the contacts!

Another MS Bites the Dust

Remember the manuscript-in-progress I mentioned here? Well, today it took the leap off the cliff. That’s right! My agent sent it on its way to some unsuspecting and no doubt terrified editors.

It’s one of those feelings that’s a five in one. I’m happy, of course, and relieved this version is done with, excited to see what people might think, scared out of my fucking mind that no one will like it and also just like WELP DEAL WITH IT.

Usually now I’d like to take a break to… just be without any characters taking up space in my head but alas. I have to be searching for something else to write, because it would be… a misstep to just not write during the time it’s being submitted. At least I can say my stuff is out there somewhere, and not just this book but about twenty-five short story submissions as well. All I know is some eyes better be reading my work at any given moment of the day. READ ME, dammit. Love me or hate me, I do take up space in one’s head.

But there’s another feeling too, and that’s one of longing.

It’s stupid, probably, and pretentious on some level, but I miss my characters from that last book. I can’t dwell forever and with any luck I’ll get to revisit them with some edits but they’re largely gone and I know that. I faced such hurdles with it. Having such a hard time with the initial birth and facing a Great Depression in the middle where I stopped work on it for months. It’s literally a tiny miracle I managed to finish at all and I’m so fucking proud of doing that, come hell or high water. It’s so me it almost hurts.

Now, turning towards the future…

So, how I normally get ideas is getting beaned. I’ve mentioned this before — maybe briefly — but beaning is essentially walking about your day as normal and then experiencing a baseball to the back of the head. It comes out of nowhere, with no reason or origin behind it: the perfect idea, nearly fully formed. That’s how it’s always worked. But I’ve recently come to understand that maybe I have to have the ability to drive myself into writing something, powered by… imagination?

The fuck is that about?

But I digress.

So I’ll be actively looking for something to turn into my next book. I’m a little… fearful. And confused. And worried. I’ve never had much luck in forcing it. But I know I can’t just rely on the sky to produce something for me. In these uncertain times, I turn towards my manual for writing, Misery by our lord and savior, Stephen King. Paul Sheldon struggled with having an idea to jumpstart the revival of Misery book, one that would satisfy Annie. He knew trying to have an idea in the middle of books was common but was unsure if trying to have an idea for the start of a book would work. In the end, he was able to do it through a combination of beaning and being open to the universe. But I feel there was something inside Paul, the great Can You?er, that made that necessary. I was a good Can You?er once upon a time.

If there was ever something in me that had the power to produce on command, now would be a great fucking time for it to announce itself.

Isolation Update

I opened this up to see when the last blog post was. Exactly… one month ago.

Um.

Well, let’s pretend that sabbatical didn’t happen. As it happens, since the last time I updated the blog, I finished a whole short story. It only took me a couple days, so there was a marked spike in my productivity but i recently plummeted with the arrival of quarantine. I live in New York so you can imagine how tight it is. I went out for the first time today in weeks, just to get some gas, and it improved my mood.

Lately I’ve just been idling, playing games and drawing, trying to stave off the looming curtain of depression.

I don’t know, man. I know this quarantine is for the long-term good but fuck if it isn’t hard. And that’s coming from someone who lives on a cushy pillow with video games at her disposal so no clue how other people handle it.

Just taking the endless desert before us one day at a time.

An Interlude

This week marks the beginning of my yoga teacher training, the end of the acceptance period of the lit mag I work at, and the emergence of my love of blue lipstick.

Basically, things are shifting. I’m getting busier, and trying to juggle everything I have taken on — at times, I sit back and think to myself, What have I done? I’m not this person—this person who… who… DOES THINGS.

But then I stop and think about it.

Why can’t I be that kind of person?

Short answer: no reason at all. I can be, will be, am currently doing things.

First of all, yoga books are heavy. Second of all, yoga class takes legit ALL day and then we do physical classes and observations throughout the week. I’m a little confused on my first paper and I’m staring at the amount of reading I have to do like damn, ain’t nobody got time for that.

But at the same time, I’m listening to what my teacher’s saying and it makes me feel like there’s hope for me.

One of the things that’s great about my rediscovery of yoga — besides my fantastic ass — is the realization that you can do anything at any time. Seriously, you can just start shit and say to yourself, Well, guess I’ll be this now. And that’s it. You’re it.

I’m also trying to balance in my writing which is, as always, more of a struggle with the self than time. I find myself looking at my Google doc with a little less than contempt but not much. Really, I’m just ready for a breath of fresh air, I think. I’ve been working on this one for a long time (and yes, the post about it will be coming up soon) and it’d be nice to do something else for a bit — maybe short storying but no concrete promises, just an ethereal want.

And it’s not that I’ve fallen out of love with the story. It means something to me, the characters mean something to me, but in true Robynian fashion, I do struggle with ending longer works. Never had such a problem with short stories, but eh, there you go. My hope for this one is that it can see the light of day. It’s not perfect but it’s super surrealist, Southern, and rapey, which of course are staples of mine.

I can often be found making some headway at the local cafe by the yoga studio. My life is encapsulated in about 10 square blocks.

This is going to have to be shoved into my new mantra of I want this, I am this.

I want to write regularly. I WRITE REGULARLY DAMMIT.

And finally, if you don’t follow me on my various social medias (accessible through this website, plug plug ((fuck, is it a plug if I own the damn site? I don’t know))), you’ll be happy to know I regularly participate in makeup experimentation, which is becoming more and more fun. And also more and more expensive, but don’t tell my husband.

I like the colors on my face, for a change. I remember when I was younger I thought certain colors—blue, for example—made me look fat. HA. Man, was that dumb. Someone should have staged an intervention because I look incredible.

Christmas Oofs

I'm sleepy, goddammit! It's Christmas, goddammit!

So I haven’t been doing too much lately due to all this goddamn coziness. I don’t think I have winter depression yet, like I usually do. Maybe it’s waiting around the January corner after the holly and spice of the season has washed away and nothing is left but an endless tundra. Who knows. What I do know is that I do need to find SOME motivation for the following things:

• Sending out thank you cards.

• Editing my novel, which I have been doing but only in spurts.

• Cleaning out the fridge.

• Getting the house in order to leave for a week.

So I’m off for my honeymoon for a week in about… a week or so. You won’t hear from me much during that time, but I do hope to get one more crafty blog post out before then. On Insta, it was voted that I do one about sex scenes and I’m still trying to compile it in my head. It’s really such a VAST thing to talk about, filled with twists and turns, but what it comes right down to is: don’t be unsexy. That’s all. But of course I’ll EXPOUND. Anyway, more on that in the actual post.

Send me good wishes for the editing. More than anything, send me willpower.

Editing Out Loud

So I just joined Sundog Lit as an Assistant Fiction Editor and boy are my arms tired.

I’m kidding, but it’s been really fun so far! And I don’t even like work. I’ve been part of a magazine before, but a smaller one, when I was in my early twenties, as a reader. Back then Submittable was still Submishmash (a way better name, by the way) and things looked a lot different.

Readjusting to an editor mindset takes me right back to Emerson and grad school because I haven’t really looked at anyone else’s fiction with an eye towards YES or NO since then. And of course, I wasn’t rejecting my fellow students’ work for anything, I was just in my head reading and like, “That’s a choice.”

I’m actually living right now, getting to be immersed in writerly things because I had divorced myself from them for a good half a year this year due to depression, anxiety, hiding in other activities like drawing and binge-watching and generally being very potatolike. But if I keep this energy up, working like I’m in the cotton fields over my own novel, editing for the magazine, continuing to interact with the few writer friends I have AND also continuing my yoga teacher training, I feel like I can rock climb my way out of impending mental doom. And there is ALWAYS impending mental doom.

So if you’re a writer and you dabble in fiction, come submit! Even if your thing isn’t fiction, we also accept poetry and nonfiction as well, so try your luck before Dec. 31st, babe.

A Pause

I’ve been gone a while, but I’m back, so this is just a precursor to real blog posts that will begin regularly again. I’ve been through the wringer creatively and mentally but we always are supposed to link it back to writing, right? Anyway, that’s what they told me in grad school.

Keep an eye out.

Lounging in Limbo: Between Writing Projects

I sat down the other night at my laptop and thought, ‘Time to write.’

It took a second before I realized I didn’t have anything to work on. There was a minute pause wherein I was confused, a little disappointed, but then overwhelming happiness burst through and I ran away to goof off.

Having finished work for now on that other project I just edited, there’s little to be done in Camp Robyn. Well, I say that knowing I could immediately start into another project if I wanted. There’s always SOMETHING to be written. However I’m a staunch believer in a palate cleanser between projects.

As a cadet novelist, my “projects” are largely 50K+ words, so as a palate cleanser I tend to do a short story or some other side project. So that’s what I plan on turning my attention to in the time it takes my agent to go over this new novel. Will I be able to sell the short story? Who knows. I still have two in backlog that need to be sent out more aggressively, which is a whole other story.

In the interim where I’m not noveling, I’ll be working on said short story and I plan on doing a series of posts about some short story assistance ranging from writing to actually getting them published. I often ask questions on my Instagram story to see what the people would like to see and so far I have a queued ask for help on making human characters, which will be coming up.

Any more requests? Hit me up there or here in the comments. Also you can now subscribe to a newsletter at the bottom, alerting you to any new posts!

The South Spilled Blood into My Mouth and I Drank It with Relief

When people would ask where I'm from, I used to stutter.

Winter in Tennessee.

A thousand things ran through my mind—what is from, exactly? Well, I was born in LA and lived there in the years I wasn't making memories. Okay, well, I made one or two, and they sit in a corner of my mind all dilapidated with time. A palm tree here, maybe smog from back then is still in my lungs. Then I moved to Florida, yes, that place, the home state of Florida Man, and I became one with the hurricane. Then, like a final touch to my soul, I was shipped up to Tennessee and spent my late teen and new adult years there. I lost my virginity in the Tennessean grasses, I won awards at a Tennessean university.

When people ask where I'm from now, I just say Tennessee, but when I say that, am I lying? Seems a lot neater than to go into the previous paragraph and spew it in a slightly different syntax at every man making small talk at me.

Sure I wasn't born there but I know it, and more than know the geography, I know that without Tennessee (and to a great extent, Florida, though whether that is THE SOUTH is another conversation) I wouldn't possibly be me. (Whether that's a good or bad thing is also another conversation.)

Somewhere along the line I started identifying as a Southern writer. There's this little town an hour south of Nashville called Columbia where my parents lived for ten years; I went to visit for summers and the odd weekend. If someone ever asks me why I identify as such, I think the only real true answer I could give would be two words: "Columbia, Tennessee."

A cold day walking in Columbia.

I don't think I've ever seen such a cute little town. Gorgeous, really, with a strange and hilarious history having to do with mules. The more time I spent there, the more time I wanted to be that, in whatever capacity I could be since I never lived there proper. I wanted to talk how the people talked and I wanted to go where they went. The book store, the antique store, parks and old barns and trails and creeks that sounded like music in the dead of winter. Knowing, of course, I could never intrinsically be just like a Columbia-bred person, I decided to work it into my writing. So deep that they couldn't be separated. If I was ever going to be known as a writer, I would be known as a writer who put this place on the map—William Gay notwithstanding.

The novel my agent's currently shopping around takes place in a warped version of Columbia called White Hill. If you're ever in the area or just look at a map, you'll see Columbia is tied by a small stretch of highway to another town called Spring Hill—in the book, it's called Red Creek. Like bitter Southern sisters, Red Creek and White Hill bitch and fight and the older brags about getting her period and tits first, but in the end they do love each other for no other reason than they're blood.

Really, I don't know if I do the town justice. Towns. They're so beautiful which is why I've attached pictures. I follow some of their town officials on Twitter because I miss it and I have never lived there but I miss it so much it's sometimes physical pain. My parents don't even live there anymore. So I have no real reason to visit. But I think, sometime, I will go back just because.

So, on wanting to be something you're not:

I've told many people I'm from Tennessee. Sometimes, they say, "Wow! And no accent!" and I'll just grin and say I've been moved around too much for it to stick. But if you say you are something, and you want to be something, and you prove you love something, I think you can turn your blood a different color.

My dog, Poland, on the Columbia trails.

Redemption, New York

The move from Boston to NYC has been intense.

So much change in one gulp can’t be good for my health — in a lot of ways, it’s not just an uprooting but a trauma, like a tooth that wasn’t ready to be pulled. I miss my home but I have to come to terms with a new space, new people, new goals. Maybe there’s some redemption here too.

I lost my previous blog of about 7 years which was a huge blow, but now I can have my own space here where no one can kick me off. HA. I have other places on the web for drawing, nonsense, serious writing business, but for the forseeable future (at least a year because that’s how long my current payment plan goes for…) I will be combining all of them here!

Welcome to my new site. And welcome to my new me.