As Sacchi wrote on Monday, I hung out with her and Jeremy Edwards over the weekend, and, inspired by the current topic at The Grip, we spent some time recording a conversation about friendship. Jeremy heroically provided the equipment and processed the audio from that, and I'll share a few snippets here.
I want to make this post worthwhile even for those who aren't set up to listen to audio, so I'm going to riff on some of things that came up, then embed the clips (and link to where they're hosted).
Do You Know Me?
I tend to assume that people don't remember me. Unless I am certain it isn't necessary, I usually remind people of my name and where we've met when I encounter them in person. In cover letters, I'll usually tag previous interactions (such as, "You've published my work in four of your books") up to, perhaps, a ridiculous point. After all, if the editor has published my stories in four of their books, I would hope my name would at least ring a bell...
Similarly, I don't assume readers know who I am, though at this point there are a pretty large number of places where they could have encountered me.
There's a downside to this assumption, though. What seems like prudence to me can lead to impostor syndrome or a tendency to miss out on opportunities to interact with the larger community. If I had a dollar for every time I've wondered if I'm "allowed to" interact with someone on Twitter, I'd have at least a month's rent.
And to become friends with people, I have to allow it. My behavior can lean formal in a way that I think holds people at arm's length. I want to relax that at least a little.
I brought up this point in the conversation with Jeremy and Sacchi, and we discussed becoming friends with others in the erotica business.
Direct Link
Do You Really Know Me If You Don't Know I'm Annabeth?
I keep my ego shelf in the living room, which is the first room a person walks into when entering my apartment. I've questioned the wisdom of this many times, because it's been awkward once in a while. For example, my priest came over once and was sitting not three feet from my vast collection of smutty books. I will probably forever wonder if he noticed or not.
There's a reason I put the books there, though. In a small way, it's an effort to avoid feeling ashamed of something that's a huge part of my life. I would like to believe that anyone who's close enough to come into my apartment is close enough to see the books. When I do get asked about them, I answer honestly, and this only gets weird some of the time.
The thing is, if you don't know that I write erotica, then you're missing a big part of my life. For me, the question of letting real life friends know what I'm up to as Annabeth is still active and difficult.
Jeremy, Sacchi and I talked about our experiences in this respect.
Direct Link
Do You Really Know Me If You Know That I'm Annabeth?
I try very hard to be real in conversations in person or over e-mail—in private conversation, really. I try to tell the truth on this blog, as well. On The Grip, I've discussed some really difficult issues that I don't usually talk about, and I have the same ideals for my Annabeth Leong blog.
For me, that's come as the result of becoming bolder and braver. I have seen so many exhortations to never discuss politics on social media sites (you don't want to alienate your customers...). Here's the thing I've finally realized. If you don't like my politics, you won't like my writing. I craft my writing to be inclusive of people of all genders, races, orientations, etc. Accurately representing the world is one of my deepest passions as a writer. I also believe in questioning stereotypes wherever I can—and for me that's good both as politics and as strong characterization and plotting. I've had places where I've fallen short, of course, but I've been trying to make my voice stronger lately.
That said, the way I'm Annabeth in public does still conceal some things. I don't generally post about what discourages me, what business practices I think are nonsense, and so on. This touches a bit on what Giselle brought up, in my mind anyway. I need a little privacy to myself. I am as present as possible in all my writing—whether that's stories, blog posts, or brief things on Twitter. It's not the whole picture, though.
That's where writer friends come in. I've been making an effort lately to have at least a few friends who know what I, as Annabeth, am struggling with. And I think it makes all the difference in the world.
Jeremy, Sacchi, and I talked about discouragements as a writer, particularly about moving on from erotica.
Direct Link
There are five more snippets than the ones I included with this post.
If you're interested in the entire conversation, I've got it all posted here, along with descriptions of what we cover in each section. If anyone has trouble getting the clips, shoot me an e-mail and I'll happily send them to you that way.
And thanks again to Jeremy and Sacchi for a lovely conversation.
Showing posts with label Jeremy Edwards. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jeremy Edwards. Show all posts
Thursday, July 3, 2014
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Reeves and the Undesired Promotion
Guest Post by Jeremy “P.G.” Edwards
I was easing myself into the columns of the morning spreadsheet and remarking how especially crisp the 3s and 7s looked when I sensed a presence. I swiveled the Edwards hips in the task chair—entangling one of the casters with the fax-machine cable in the process—and found myself face to face with Reeves.
The Reeves half of the face-to-face action held a hint of foreboding, if foreboding is the word I want. I don’t mean to imply that you’d stop her on the street for an autograph, having mistaken her for the Greek mask of Tragedy, or sidle up to inquire solicitously which Russian novel she’d wandered out of. No, Reeves is not one to convey emotion on a grand scale. But years of employing Reeves as my assistant bookkeeper had taught me to recognize the soupcons of anxiety that appeared from time to time in the Reeves countenance, and this was a soupcon if I ever saw one.
“Oh, hullo, Reeves.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Here a bit early, aren’t you?”
“It is kind of you to notice, sir. I did arrive in a chronologically anterior fashion today.”
“Eager to dip into the Habermas, were you?” One of the reasons Reeves stays with us is that toiling in the college-bookstore milieu gives her access to her favourite scribblers. From what Reeves tells me, this Habermas fellow writes tomes that grip the reader from start to finish. I imagine he’s pretty generous with the ménage and exhibitionism scenes.
“No, sir. I thought my presence might be of some small benefit as we examined the contents of the Federal Express envelope.”
Well, I won’t say I fell all the way off my task chair, but the fleshy parts slid far enough down the seat that the phrase “mileage reimbursement” crossed my mind.
“Reeves, you must be more careful with your enunciation,” I said sternly. “You slurred your speech so awfully just now, it sounded like you said ‘Federal Express envelope.’”
“No, sir. That is indeed the phrase to which I gave utterance.”
“What? Why the d. would you do that?”
“Because, sir, the term was the most accurate description at my disposal when I found it necessary to impart news of the object’s arrival. It was presented by the delivery gentleman shortly before closing time last evening, and I surmised that you would wish to respond to the missive at your earliest convenience.”
“What do you suppose the blasted thing says?”
Reeves coughed discreetly. “Conjecture will not be required, as I took the liberty of perusing the document when it arrived.”
“Well, what did it say, Reeves?” Despite her general attitude of—what is it? Starts with an r . . . ah, right, reserve—despite her reserve, Reeves has a sneaky flair for the dramatic that can be exasperating. I mean to say, there’s a time to exercise one’s f. for the d., and a time not to exercise it, and in the opinion of J. Edwards the present moment had definitely shaped up to be a non-exercising one of the first order.
“Out with it, Reeves. Don’t keep me waiting like those pals of yours whose colleague never turned up. What was the chap’s name? Go-something?”
“You are perhaps thinking of Godot, sir, an offstage character in a work by Samuel Beckett.”
“Yes, that’s the fellow. Seems just as well to leave him offstage if he’s going to be so inconsiderate.”
“You are undoubtedly correct, sir. One can assume Mr. Beckett was thinking along similar lines when composing the drama.”
“But we can discuss the latest theatre goings-on at some later date. What was in this letter from HQ? I assume it was from HQ.”
“Your supposition is entirely just, sir. The letter of promotion emanated from our central corporate offices.”
The fleshy parts sailed another reimbursable mile or two down the task chair. “Letter of p-promotion? You mean as in ‘sales promotions’?” Never let it be said that the Edwardses aren’t optimists. “New batch of flotsam they want us to feature at the front of the store? What is it this time, spiral notebooks with chalkboard covers? Sweatshirts with cheaply made cell phones sewn into the hoods? I trust it’s not more highlighters, Reeves. We still have nineteen cases left over from last time.”
“The letter did not pertain to merchandising strategies. After a few cordial references to our recent efforts to advance the company’s fiscal status, it chiefly concerned itself with the details of your imminent promotion to store manager.”
Reeves looked sympathetic, by which I mean that the rightmost eyelash on her left eye drooped about half a millimetre.
“Store manager? Me?”
“I fear so, sir.” She cleared her throat. “Shall I bring a sheet of bubble wrap from the stockroom? Rupturing bubbles is an excellent method of alleviating tension, if one is to credit the professional literature.”
“Bring three sheets, Reeves.”
“Very good, sir.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I was easing myself into the columns of the morning spreadsheet and remarking how especially crisp the 3s and 7s looked when I sensed a presence. I swiveled the Edwards hips in the task chair—entangling one of the casters with the fax-machine cable in the process—and found myself face to face with Reeves.
The Reeves half of the face-to-face action held a hint of foreboding, if foreboding is the word I want. I don’t mean to imply that you’d stop her on the street for an autograph, having mistaken her for the Greek mask of Tragedy, or sidle up to inquire solicitously which Russian novel she’d wandered out of. No, Reeves is not one to convey emotion on a grand scale. But years of employing Reeves as my assistant bookkeeper had taught me to recognize the soupcons of anxiety that appeared from time to time in the Reeves countenance, and this was a soupcon if I ever saw one.
“Oh, hullo, Reeves.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“Here a bit early, aren’t you?”
“It is kind of you to notice, sir. I did arrive in a chronologically anterior fashion today.”
“Eager to dip into the Habermas, were you?” One of the reasons Reeves stays with us is that toiling in the college-bookstore milieu gives her access to her favourite scribblers. From what Reeves tells me, this Habermas fellow writes tomes that grip the reader from start to finish. I imagine he’s pretty generous with the ménage and exhibitionism scenes.
“No, sir. I thought my presence might be of some small benefit as we examined the contents of the Federal Express envelope.”
Well, I won’t say I fell all the way off my task chair, but the fleshy parts slid far enough down the seat that the phrase “mileage reimbursement” crossed my mind.
“Reeves, you must be more careful with your enunciation,” I said sternly. “You slurred your speech so awfully just now, it sounded like you said ‘Federal Express envelope.’”
“No, sir. That is indeed the phrase to which I gave utterance.”
“What? Why the d. would you do that?”
“Because, sir, the term was the most accurate description at my disposal when I found it necessary to impart news of the object’s arrival. It was presented by the delivery gentleman shortly before closing time last evening, and I surmised that you would wish to respond to the missive at your earliest convenience.”
“What do you suppose the blasted thing says?”
Reeves coughed discreetly. “Conjecture will not be required, as I took the liberty of perusing the document when it arrived.”
“Well, what did it say, Reeves?” Despite her general attitude of—what is it? Starts with an r . . . ah, right, reserve—despite her reserve, Reeves has a sneaky flair for the dramatic that can be exasperating. I mean to say, there’s a time to exercise one’s f. for the d., and a time not to exercise it, and in the opinion of J. Edwards the present moment had definitely shaped up to be a non-exercising one of the first order.
“Out with it, Reeves. Don’t keep me waiting like those pals of yours whose colleague never turned up. What was the chap’s name? Go-something?”
“You are perhaps thinking of Godot, sir, an offstage character in a work by Samuel Beckett.”
“Yes, that’s the fellow. Seems just as well to leave him offstage if he’s going to be so inconsiderate.”
“You are undoubtedly correct, sir. One can assume Mr. Beckett was thinking along similar lines when composing the drama.”
“But we can discuss the latest theatre goings-on at some later date. What was in this letter from HQ? I assume it was from HQ.”
“Your supposition is entirely just, sir. The letter of promotion emanated from our central corporate offices.”
The fleshy parts sailed another reimbursable mile or two down the task chair. “Letter of p-promotion? You mean as in ‘sales promotions’?” Never let it be said that the Edwardses aren’t optimists. “New batch of flotsam they want us to feature at the front of the store? What is it this time, spiral notebooks with chalkboard covers? Sweatshirts with cheaply made cell phones sewn into the hoods? I trust it’s not more highlighters, Reeves. We still have nineteen cases left over from last time.”
“The letter did not pertain to merchandising strategies. After a few cordial references to our recent efforts to advance the company’s fiscal status, it chiefly concerned itself with the details of your imminent promotion to store manager.”
Reeves looked sympathetic, by which I mean that the rightmost eyelash on her left eye drooped about half a millimetre.
“Store manager? Me?”
“I fear so, sir.” She cleared her throat. “Shall I bring a sheet of bubble wrap from the stockroom? Rupturing bubbles is an excellent method of alleviating tension, if one is to credit the professional literature.”
“Bring three sheets, Reeves.”
“Very good, sir.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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