Welcome to Kiki Writes About

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As the name implies, this is where I write about…whatever. Myself, life, writing, sexuality, weight, my random issues and obsessions, if it comes into my head, I may just put it into words here.

If you’re looking for my fiction, you’ll find everything on Read Me. Everything I’ve published (either traditionally or self) is there. If you’d like to be convinced that I’m worth your time and money, check out the Writing for Tips section. It’s all of my free short stories. However, if you read a few and decide you like them, feel free to buy me a coffee over on Ko-Fi.

Murderville is my Patreon project. It wrapped up in 2021, but watch this space. There could be a new project coming soon.

If you’re looking for my podcast ventures, like Book ’em, Danno, or my ramblings on reruns, you’ll want to check out aka KikiWrites.

So, kick back and enjoy some words.

They could be about anything.

Writing Advice From an Unsuccessful Writer

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One of my younger coworkers has decided to wade into the world of fiction writing and she asked me for some writing advice as she’s never written fiction before. Caught off-guard by the question as I frequently forget that people I know in the meatspace are aware that I’m a writer, what spewed forth from my mouth was a mess of wisdom that probably just confused the hell out of her. But hopefully, she pulled some useful bits from my rambling.

Upon reflection, here are the most important, coherent bits of writing advice from the big mouth of an unsuccessful writer.

  1. Write for yourself. Telling the story that you want to tell, writing the story that you want to read, that’s the best advice I’ve ever heard. Writing can be lonely, frustrating work, but the joy of it is in the creation of something that’s for yourself. There’s also less disappointment when you find out that you’re the only one who wants to read it.
  2. There’s no right way to write. Word counts, timers, pantsing, outling, revising as you go, revising when the draft is done. The only real requirement is that your butt is in the seat writing the words on a reliable basis. Discipline is the key no matter which way you find is best for you.
  3. Not writing is part of writing. Let your ideas marinate, develop, fester, etc. Living with the characters and scenarios and stories in your head, sometimes for years, is part of writing. Yes, eventually what’s in your head has to make it to the page, but until they’re ready to be birthed, letting them cook is still writing.
  4. Writing is rewriting. No first draft is perfect and the worst shit can always be made better with some effort. I take great comfort in that. You don’t have to be perfect. Not on the first draft. Not even on the fifth. Enjoy the revisions.
  5. Write for the joy of it. Sometimes writing is a slog. Trying to get published (if you want to do that) can be soul crushing. Rejection is going to be frequent. Improving your craft is a lot of dedication and work and sometimes it feels like you’re not getting any better. It’s easy to forget the joy that made you want to put pen to paper in the first place. But it’s there every time you get the spark of a new idea or figure out a plot problem or name a new character or get lost in the act of wordsmithing or finally -finally!- finishing that story. If you’re going to write, write for the joy of it. You’ll never want to quit.

My coworker has such a fun idea for a story and I really hope that my blathering didn’t turn her off from pursuing it. I hope that out of that large, tossed word salad I fed her, she found some morsels that nourished her enthusiasm to put this idea down on the page.

I realize it might be ridiculous for an unsuccessful writer to be giving writing advice, but look at it this way…

Just because I’m no good doesn’t mean the advice is bad.

Poem–“Hips”

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We’re in the home stretch of National Poetry Month. You’re almost there, kids. And since you’re already struggling, let’s do a poem that’s sure to make you really uncomfortable.

I admit it. I like to watch you squirm.

***

Hips

There’s something about her hips.
The way they’re spread wide
and far, like the rumor of
good things to come.
The way the curve of them
begs for hands to grip
just at the top, squeeze,
hold on for the ride of your
Life.

Poem–“Where Do You Get Your Ideas From?”

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We’re half-way through National Poetry Month. Are you feeling the burn? Don’t worry. You’re doing great. And this poem is a fun one. It answers a question writers get all the time.

I don’t think you’ll like my answer, though.

***

Where Do You Get Your Ideas From?

I want to say my mind is a prism,
that it fractures the light of reality
into a rainbow, creates a palette
I paint with to please the masses.

In actuality, my mind is a kitchen sink drain
that I clean out now and then
and save the best bits of gunk
to make a meal no one eats.

Poem–“Let’s Eat”

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National Poetry Month continues, and so does the onslaught of my bad poetry. Let’s have some fun with a poem that would have folks loudly declaring that the shoe doesn’t fit if they read it.

Good thing nobody’s read it.

***

Let’s Eat

Men are vegetarian dogs.
They like to chew on skinny things-
matchsticks, toothpicks,
meatless bones
picked clean by high standards.
A man is finicky about his meal.

Women, though, women like to dine,
feast, indulge in the banquet
laid before them, the tastes,
the textures, the variety, the flavors
washing over their tongues, savoring.
A woman is not a picky eater.

Poem–“This Is a Bad Poem”

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It’s National Poetry Month, my yearly excuse to inflict my terrible poetry on your delicate sensibilities, a weekly barrage of cringe-worthy attempts at art.

I hope you like abuse.

***

This Is a Bad Poem

This is a bad poem.
First and foremost it doesn’t rhyme,
except by accident one time.
Secondly, it doesn’t use enough devices.
It lacks metaphors like a drought lacks rain.
It has all the symbolism of an anvil
dropped from a great height
onto a cartoon character
who never saw it coming
despite the music.
Lastly, it took me only ten minutes to write it
and five minutes to edit it.
Fifteen minutes too many because
this is a bad poem.

Read This If–You Wanna Like Poetry

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National Poetry Month is coming up and I want you to be prepared by reading some good poetry before I inflict my bad poetry on you.

Yes, I know. You don’t really like poetry. Well, this isn’t English class and we’re not picking apart sonnets to understand iambic pentameter and symbolism. We’re reading for our own enjoyment and our own experience. Let the poems speak to you on whatever level they find you one. You’ll be surprised how much you can get from them there.

The Breakbeat Poets: New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop, edited by Kevin Coval, Quraysh Ali Lansana, and Nate Marshall- This is the first of The Breakbeat Poets anthologies which include Black Girl Magic, Halal If You Hear Me, and LatiNext. I will one day acquire them all. Until then, let’s talk about this one. It features 78 poets born between 1961 and 1999 writing about the experience of existence in the moment.

If the thought of poetry only conjures up memories of dead white folks with dusty rhyme schemes about love and nature, this is going to be refreshing, as these poets redefine what poetry means. I particularly like the visual aspect of Douglas Kearney’s poetry, for example. But every poet brings something special to the page, and the hip-hop flavor is undeniable. It’s so good.

Black Queer Hoe by Britteney Black Rose Kapri- Isn’t that title to die for? Tackling questions of identity, sexuality, and power, these poems pull no punches in their exploration and reclamation. The slim volume of poetry is packed with honesty, emotion, and humor. Some of it’s downright raw, but it’s all unapologetic, and I love that. It doesn’t flinch.

“Queer enough” hits me where I live. “reasons imma Hoe” and “before they can use it against you” speak to me on a soul level. The poems are short, but pack one hell of a punch. And the tweets are a sweet bonus. It’s a fab read.

Citizen Illegal by José Olivarez- Another slim volume, it packs within its pages and poems reflections on race, ethnicity, immigrants, and racism. Latinx lives and Chicago scenes come alive. It’s honest and funny and emotional.

The title poem “(Citizen)(Illegal)” sets the perfect tone. “You Get Fat When You’re In Love” sings to me. And I love “Mexican Heaven”. Yes, all of them. You’ll have to read the book to know what I’m talking about. And you should definitely read the book.

It’s worth noting that Britteney Black Rose Kapri and José Olivarez are both contributors to The Breakbeat Poets: New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop. It’s also worth noting that all three of these poetry books are available at Haymarket Books.

If you ever wanna learn to like poetry, start with one of these. If they don’t make you like it, well, go back to Shel Silverstein and never stop looking for that poetry joy.

I Am an Intimidation Tactic

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I am the library witch.

I don’t know know when it happened, but sometime in the last almost five years of employment I became the library clerk to be feared.

People whisper not to cross me or I’ll hex them. I’m talked about like a punishment, a threat. “This is Christin. She’s our cudgel.” I am the threat of blunt force trauma in snazzy pants and funky tights and cute dresses. We joke about the ghosts of librarians past, but I’m the one that actually haunts the library. I skulk through the stacks, looking for children to scare and patrons to frighten. Coworkers to bully.

I am more feared than an ’80s slasher villain no matter their body count and how many times they come back from the dead.

I am a curse.

And I have no idea what to make of it. Because I’ve been this way for a long time. I can’t say forever because I wasn’t like this when I was a kid. I was shy and sensitive and incredibly weird. I admit that I’ve always been an angry little thing and prone to fighting and that did give me a little bit of a reputation. Turned out to stick with me even though the only person I fought in high school was my sister, who also had a bit of a reputation as someone not to cross. One of our friends whom we’d known since childhood once said that everyone wanted to be our friend because nobody wanted to be on our bad side.

Okay, maybe I have always been this way. It just had to mature along with me, refine itself into this raven that sits on my shoulder, alerting everyone to my potential.

I seem to haunt every place I go. If there’s a group dynamic, I unintentionally establish myself as the imminent danger.

I think it’s in part because I do not suffer fools. I come from a family of non-fool sufferers, which was rough when I was young and a fool because I was not suffered. Now I’m the one who is not doing any suffering. I do not have time for ignorant nonsense. Has customer service exacerbated this aspect of my personality? Absolutely. There’s a prevalence of fools in this line of work and I will not suffer a single one. That makes an impression. Even when I’m not trying to give that impression, it’s so infused in my aura that I still make that impression. More than once I’ve been told that when people first meet me they’re intimidated. While I appreciate that power, it’s not the default the vibe I’m going for.

Most people want to be liked. Life is easier when you’re liked. I don’t think about being liked. I tend to assume that I’m not liked. I’m tolerated. It’s better to be on my good side than my bad. “Don’t make Christin angry. You wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.” And you wouldn’t. I’m less than fun when I’m angry at you (I am hilarious, though, if I’m ranting about something that has nothing to do with you). So, when I find out that people actually like me, it confuses me. Surely, you jest. Did you miss the memo? The vibes? The aura? The warnings?

Or did you figure that befriending the monster would keep you safe? And once you did, you realized that she really isn’t that bad.

As long as you stay on my good side.

I Never Go Out Alone…Anxiety Is My Forever Date

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I’m not the most social creature. I’m like a cryptid. Sightings of me in the wild are rare and to be treasured, sometimes worthy of being caught on film.

When I do make these rare excursions into the social sphere, I prefer to go with others. Also like a cryptid, I’m weird and awkward around humans. Having a friend or a group of friends makes that awkwardness and weirdness less noticeable. It also makes it easier for me to be in a social situation. Having someone else or a group of someone elses with me acts as sort of a buffer from the anxiety of being in a social situation. They are the lubricant that greases the wheels of my social interactions, as it were.

Sometimes, though, I have to fly solo. Or maybe just arrive solo with the intent of meeting up with my lubricants and buffers. But either/or, I’m never really solo. My anxiety is always with me.

Here’s the thing: Alone or with friends, if I’m out and about in a social situation, I never feel like I belong. I always feel awkward and I feel like that awkwardness is apparent. I feel like the people I’m interacting with -even friends I’ve known for decades- can plainly see that I’m poorly cosplaying as a functioning human being. Now, with the friends I’ve known for ages, I eventually relax and even though my anxiety never goes away and I will absolutely rake myself over the coals later about everything I’ve said and done, my anxiety at least relaxes with me for that moment. But, if I’m with people I’m less comfortable with because maybe I haven’t known them as long or I don’t hang out with them as much, or I’m flying solo and forced to be in the midst of people I barely know or don’t know at all, I never relax and neither does my anxiety. I spend the entire time in performance mode, and that my friends, is exhausting.

In theory, the more that I socialize, the more comfortable my anxiety could become with the whole act of socializing. The more my anxiety and I feel comfortable with socializing, the more we’ll feel like we belong in those situations and with those people.

In practice, however…well, I don’t know how it works out in practice because I struggle with getting past my basic cryptid nature and ingrained social anxiety to actually put this into practice. The idea of making myself more available to hang out with people seems like guaranteed rejection because who would want to voluntarily hangout with an anxiety-ridden cryptid? Sure, I would, but that’s because cryptids of a feather. Or another more fitting cryptid feature. I guess it depends on the cryptid. My point is that it’s a pretty big ask to associate with me in a public, social situation and not everyone is up for that and I don’t blame them.

Yes, I know that could just be my anxiety talking, but it could also be true.

In conclusion, this is one of those things that I’m going to spend my existence working on. Maybe one day the practice will finally prove the theory. In the meantime, enjoy the cryptid sightings.

Holy Shit, I Haven’t Published Anything in Five Years

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You may have noticed that the latest release on the site hasn’t changed in a while. A little over five years, actually. I had this realization late one night while my brain was doing its mental gymnastics before it finally shut up and let me sleep.

Holy shit, I haven’t published anything in five years.

It should go without saying that I’m not counting the freebies here or the Patreon projects I’ve done. I’m talking about self-publishing or in the very rare case traditional publishing. Haven’t published a damn thing in five years.

There was a period of time between 2013 and 2019 that I had something published at least once a year, and in many case, multiple things. Those were the boon years, I suppose. I had a ton of ideas, a ton of projects, a ton of time and dedication to getting things written, revised, polished, and published for the masses.

Now, by no means was I successful. I think my best-selling title has sold a little over 500 copies in its entire existence. But I was productive. I always had something going. I felt like as long as I kept churning out stories, something would eventually catch. I’d build that mythological platform that agents and publishers look for and I’d be able to take the next step in my writing career.

Instead, the bottom fell out.

Writing became hard. The ideas dried up. I shifted focus to just getting through Murderville for Patreon because everything was so difficult. I had nothing going. Nothing to publish. It all dried up. I think unconsciously I decided that I was done. Not necessarily writing because I don’t know how to be done writing even when it’s hard. But I was done publishing. I was never going to write anything that anyone would want to read and it was too hard to write anything for myself that I’d want anyone to read for a price. I was just kinda done.

Then by some miracle writing stopped being hard.

But the urge to publish hasn’t exactly returned. At least it’s not exactly like it used to be.

While I am looking to get back into the game and reacquaint myself with the business of submitting short stories while also keeping my eyes open for agents that might be a good fit for me if I ever manage to finish a book that wouldn’t be a waste of their time to read, the drive to be focused on producing and publishing as much as possible hasn’t returned. That frantic urge that pushed me to publish multiple novellas and short story collections in a year is nowhere to be found. And honestly, I’m kind of glad for that.

It’s been nice to write without it feeling like I’m sucking out my own bone marrow with a crazy straw. I want to enjoy it. And I want to take my time reintroducing myself to getting published, be it traditionally or self-done. Why be balls to the wall when I don’t have to be? There’s plenty of time for me to go full-tilt when I’m ready.

So I guess that latest release will just remain unchanged.

For now.