Or, “sorry no cookies for you, insincere able-person.”
[Image description: A pink “your ecards” that depicts a black and white drawing of a man and a woman standing side by side on the right hand side. On the left black text reads: “P.S. I’ll tolerate you”.]
I paid $26 to renew this domain so I may as well use it to vent my spleen (because why else do we blog?).
My ire this morning was drawn to this article. The tl;dr version is “Professor condescend to a student asking for accommodations so hard she scares the student from ever contacting her again. She takes this as a victory for some reason.”
[Image description: A gif of Jim Carrey in “Liar Liar” slamming his head on a desk in a courtroom as his stunned client sits next to him.]
[Image description: A picture from “Dante’s Inferno”. It is a black and white drawing of a nude woman with a wound between her breasts floating in the air, looking back at the male figure supporting her. The male figure is partially clothed in a draping cloth and his arms are extended, as if intending to cradle the woman in it. He is looking down at her but his expression cannot be seen. They float above a desolate landscape of mountains. In the background some dark figures can be seen with obscured details. Some float above the landscape, some with wings. On the ground Dante can be seen with his guide Virgil in dark robes.]
Recently I visited some of my mother’s family, they live out of state. She has a cousin who’s had hepatitis for years, and more recently became HIV+. She told me how she rarely gets to see people, and leave the house. She told me about how she loves to read. When she reads she gets to escape for a few hours. I can say I know how she feels.
I want to send her my completed novel. If it would make her happy for a few hours it would be worth it. It would all be worth it. I want to get it to her before it’s too late for both of us.
I can feel a pinching, grinding in my lower back. The area is tender to touch, and radiates pain outwards. I’m afraid the disc has totally decayed and I’m suffering from true stenosis. That the bare bones are now sitting on nerves. I wonder if I need the surgery they’re so reluctant to give. I see my spine doctor on Friday. Along with all my other on-going health problems.
I’m so tired.
I have a lessened workload this quarter as I have two online courses. I am going to y to finish posting “The Ring and the Bridle” in the next few months. I want it finished for whatever happens next.
I have my pay-out from my contribution to “Strange California”. With it I’d like to hire an editor, but I don’t even know where to start. The manuscript is about 125,000 words. I don’t want to low ball, but I do have a set limit of spending as my only income is my student stipend. I’m not asking for a MFA, but I would like to see a resume.
If you’re looking for work feel free to contact me at my email: firstname.lastname@example.org and we can discuss pricing and a contract.
[Image description: A black and white book cover entitled “The Ring and the Bridle”. The cover has a border of Celtic knots. The title is surrounded by filigree. Below the title is a silhouette of a horse rearing.]
Eddie accidentally incurs the wrath of a kelpie when she save her older brother from drowning. Instead of finding help from the local magic community however she instead finds herself “being pulled three different ways”. By the old woman and her jinn who may have ulterior motives, the eternally young Scot with a guilty conscience, and most of all by the local enchanter who offers her a golden bridle to enslave her foe.
The choice however is hers alone.
Naoise offered his hand, palm up and open. In this place there were only genuine gestures of regret and sorrow. They only became corporeal through the acknowledgement others felt this pain. Eddie raised her hand and hesitated. She drew it in as she struggled against her fear and distress. At last however the hand spread open like a fish opening its fragile fins and it swam over to his. His fingers dove beneath hers. His cold fingertips brushed her flushed palm as his hand dipped to cradle her trembling fingers. He felt the pulse in her wrist and encircled that vivid beat of life.
For a second he dared to dream beneath these dark and oppressive waves that even now they would rise from these depths. That he could save her from drowning, and that she still loved him. That even the anchor that lay gored at their feet could be overcome.
Chapter Eleven at:
Ao3 | FictionPress
Response to this as Blogger ate the original comment.
I appreciate your efforts and willingness to listen, however I still have some problems with how this project was apparently handled. I don’t want to discourage able people from writing people unlike themselves, but there are still things to be addressed.
The biggest being with so many disabled and neurodivergent writers struggling and starving to be published that you managed to get “a little less than half” in your anthology that is supposed to be about disability and neurodiveregent characters because “that’s how things worked out”.
It implies one) that able writers are able to portray disability as well as disabled people. Your update today already showed the problem with this idea. While I am aware that the statement was not made in malice and with no intent to harm; it was still ignorant. It’s a common idea in able people disability is a difficulty because of life’s cruelty, that we’re simply not made for this world. When in fact able people are the ones who make the world difficult for disabled people and those with atypical neurologies because of their inability to make accommodations or even understand our needs. An even cursory search on disability representation brings up the medical versus social model of disability, the first concept in understanding this idea. Disability does not “make things a little bit different”, trying to survive in a society that has no use for you and often wants you dead does.
Austin Anderson was murdered by his mother last week. If you want to read an article that paints a pretty, sad, objectifying picture of the events and poises his mother as sad and repentant (while …
Source: There is Blood on your Aware Hands