On vacation for the past week, I spent my time doing things deliberately unrelated to writing, plotting, or creating. Especially no creating. Nothing that demanded creativity in the least. My brain needed a vacation as much as I did from the dayjob. The most creative things I did were: cook french toast (involving sourdough loaf and heavy whipping cream, seasoned with cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar and vanilla extract); carry on a detailed conversation analyzing the ethical implications of character choices in the third season of The Walking Dead; and go to the local RenFaire for a day--not in costume, for once--and make a few lewd comebacks in the bartender's general direction.
Today, though, marks a week for easing back into the writing thing and striving for some productivity. Wouldn't you know, someone dropped a landmine of inspiration in my email over the weekend. Part of me wants to keep it a secret because I have this proven hate/hate relationship with deadlines and anthologies.
Yes, you read that right. I'll be working on a piece, of currently indeterminate length (please feel free to laugh at me), for an anthology.
The project is currently titled Men Hurt Too. Michele at Top to Bottom Reviews is coordinating it with the intention of providing the proceeds to a charity (not yet chosen) that will benefit male victims of domestic violence.
I am a bit nervous about this. Okay, gross understatement there. I am ten kinds of nervous about this. It's way outside my comfort zone and pings on at least a handful of trigger mechanisms to booby traps that I really would prefer to avoid.
But that is in part the precise reason why I've chosen to commit to this project. Our cultures and societies the world over have this stereotypical notion that males do not experience abuse at the hands of their significant others, regardless of their gender and/or orientation, that they do not end up the victims of domestic violence or rape, be it physical, emotional, psychological, or some combination thereof. Through erasure and complete disregard, it is ignored and dismissed.
So here I am. Waving a red flag and yelling, "Ole!" If I get gored or trampled... at least it'll be one glorious, bloody mess. That monster doesn't bear much resemblance to any bull I've seen, but it's time to grab a whip and a cattleprod and see if I can tame it anyways. (Oh yes, you may laugh at me for that one as well, if you like.)
I would love to see some writers of greater prowess and skill than myself step up to join in. There are so many of you! Sign-up runs through the end of September.
I'm off to stare at a blank screen, sweat profusely with the central air cranked, and chug caffeine. I foresee a week of late nights and all-nighters.