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Viewing Blog: Carrie Jones, Most Recent at Top
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Please be warned. If you are going to read this blog, you have to understand that I'm a little bit weird. John Wayne is my internal editor. Grover the Muppet is my internal cheerleader. I know! I know! Weird. I'm the author of Tips on Having A Gay (ex) Boyfriend (May 2007/Paperback May 2008), Love and Other Uses For Duct Tape (March 2008), Girl, Hero (July 2008), Need (January 2009), Moe Berg's Story (Spring 2009).
Statistics for Carrie Jones

Number of Readers that added this blog to their MyJacketFlap: 29
1. My tweets

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2. My tweets

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3. My tweets

  • Mon, 16:17: RT @LeonardosRose: Hate-Group-Watchdog has long file on "Patriot" suspect in Jewish-hate slaying http://t.co/sogZOsCX4r #tcot @/PaulRevereP…
  • Mon, 16:18: I would like to write a magical kind of book. You know, the kind that changes people's hearts or at least transports them away for a bit.

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  • Thu, 13:00: Whenever I write a kissing scene I feel like a perv with control issues, or a voyeur. Sometimes I end up make actual kissy faces. Me=Weird.

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8. My tweets

  • Sun, 18:58: Random overheard quote: My grandfather used to be a bear.
  • Sun, 18:59: Second random overheard quote (Dad to daughter): Molly! Molly! Do you want to come see a dead bird?

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11. My Very First Blog Post from 2005 - PLEASE DO NOT READ IT IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED!

I found my very first blog post. Ever. And because I obviously hate myself, I am going to repost it here. I am pretty sure that is offensive somehow,
especially if you are easily offended.

But yeah.

The weirdest thing is that I used to be even weirder than I am now.

The second weirdest thing is my brain.

Carrie Now
Here it is...my first ever live journal entry. For some reason, it's actually more frightening than the first page of a new story. Maybe that's because someone other than my adviser might actually read this. Hey. Three people is a big audience for me.

So, today, I was trying to imagine what a bunch of children's authors writing porn might be like. Yes, yes, I get bored easily and have to find ways to amuse myself. I live in Maine after all and it's snowing and the highlight of my day is watching a barge pull dredge drudge up the river and out to sea.

I figure, if I scare everyone right now, I'll alienate my two readers that are out there. Yeah, that's you mom!

The Children's Writers’ Sex Book Collaborative Workshop

Attempt No. 1
The Great Published One with Movie Rights optioned out to Disney said, “Let’s write a sex book.”
The others said okay-dokey.
“A collaborative sex book?” giggled He-Who-Writes Choose-Your-Own-Adventure-Books. “How perfect.”
“Very smart. Come on, let’s start,” said She-Who-Always-Rhymes.
“Yay!” said the rest, clapping their hands and whipping out their laptops. “Yay! Yay! Yay!”
They sat and they sat and they sat some more and then the one with the Newbery Honor Book who sings opera and likes to write things about large amphibians eating taco pizza raised his hands with the elongated fingers and said, “Um, has anyone actually ever copulated?”
“If anyone here has ever actually gotten jiggy with it, please raise their hand,” said the Great Published One trying to be hip and respond to the younger demographic.
No one raised their hands.

Attempt No. 2
On the next day, after a very exciting night, She Who Writes in Rhymes (about little people lost in big woods with scary bears) came into the workshop holding Newberry Man’s hand and said with a satisfied smile on her face, “I’m ready, Freddy. I’ve tossed out my teddy.”
“Hee. Hee. Hee,” said He-With-A-Newberry.
She punched him in the arm and giggled. He punched her back and began tickling at which point She-Of-Many-Peaceful-Picture-Books yelled, “No violence!”
Everyone stopped giggling and got down to work.
“How about, ‘If you give a man a penis…chances are …he’s going to use it,” said the Great Published One.
“Oohh…I like it,” said Newberry Man.
“No! How about… ‘I think I can. I think I can. I think I can,’” said Great Published One.
“Even better!” said Rhyming Girl laughing hysterically. “That was him, last night, that was him… to the letter!”
“Not very funny!” Newberry Man pulled on his duck boots and stomped out of the room.
“Now you’ve done it,” said Peaceful Picture Books. "You have injured his already fragile ego, adding to the negative vibratory essence of the world."
“I only meant it in a good way,” said Rhyming Girl, still snorting. “It might not have been his day.”
The Great Published One giggled, smached his hands together and said, "She said, 'vibratory.' Did you hear her? She said, 'vibratory.'"

Attempt No. 3
“Here, I’ve got it,” said Newberry Man in clear operatic well-modulated tones. “Once upon a time there was a homosapien male of the species who was attending to his natural hormone-induced needs when he came upon a strange female homosapien who preferred to wear baggy wool sweaters covered with cat fur and hairballs rather than interesting lingerie items. Being desperate, he didn’t care. ‘Let’s copulate!’ He said. She agreed and they trounced off to a pasture where overcome with the impeding actual fulfillment of his desires, he began to fixate upon various aspects of his performance, thus creating an almost untenable situation…”
The writer/illustrator stood up, “That’s not a very exciting visual, dude. Let’s go down some B-52 shots.”

Attempt No. 4
The Great Published One looked upon the masses before him and sighed, “How about this?”
He proceeded to read from his IBook screen.
“Let’s have a sex party.
A real sex party.
Big sex. Little sex.
Black sex. White sex. Yellow sex. Green sex.
Lots and lots of sex going to a sex party. A real sex party.”
The laptops were silent and then there was a hearty round of applause and then She of Peaceful Picture Books said, “Perhaps the use of colors as descriptive adjectives might in fact be discriminatory in nature…Or maybe you are leaving some colors out as an example of your own white-dominated schema. Why not red sex? Why not blue sex? Why not rainbow colored sex?”
The Great Published One threw his IBook at her and said, “Let’s call it a day and go do some research.”
“Yay!” said the masses of children’s book writers. “Yay! Yay! Yay!”

Attempt No. 5
“I think, perhaps, we have been going about this all wrong,” said Newbery Honor. “Instead of worrying about the text, why don’t we start off with a title? Any suggestions?”
“Make Way for Orgasms,” suggested Rhyming Girl. “Orgasms… orgasms.. .What rhymes with orgasms! Oh! Intense Spasms!”
“Too obvious.” Great Published One pondered, “How about Charlotte’s Website?”
“I know!” Newberry Man pointed in the air emphatically to make sure everyone was paying attention. “Bi-curious George!”
Rhyming Girl nodded, “Perfect.”
“Time for research?” asked the Great Published One.
“Yay!” said the authors. “Yay! Yay! Yay!”

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13. Waiting

So, I am waiting to hear about revisions and projects and all sorts of random stuff and this puts me in what I call Writer Waiting Mode.

I am not really good at waiting, so I am trying to write an adult mystery/suspense thing. It is ridiculously fun and sort of freeing.

It's made me wonder what other people do when they wait to hear about things work or personal-life related.

And now get ready for:


My daughter has really delicate sneezes where you actually hear the sounds "Ah-choo." I sneeze like I'm being murdered. I do not think this is fair. Also, how pathetic is it that I am envious of her sneezing noise? Bad mother, Bad.

And now get ready for:


Scotty is terribly bored by this post. He can't even read the whole thing. You can tell by his tight jowled expression and closed eyes. 

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15. Birthday Realization, Sandwiches, Seattle, Big Holes

It was my birthday this weekend and I was in Seattle presenting at the AWP Conference.  Seattle is a long way from Maine.

And this birthday? This birthday is a long way away from my first one. I am a grown-up now and I don't have to wear diapers (Yet - at least. I am not that old). But it was bigger than that. This was my first birthday with no living grandparents and no living parents and since I was in Seattle away from my dogs, there was also no dog fur.

I was kind of freaked out about it, the way you get freaked out when you realize that most of your family is dead. And I was kind of freaked out about it because I felt like this birthday would be meaningful in its loneliness somehow. Only… it wasn't lonely.

I went out to dinner with awesome people and had one of the best dinners ever. I also made sandwiches with one of my friends and gave them out to random people on the street who looked like they needed sandwiches. Most of these people were super cool. There was the lady who didn't need a sandwich but offered me a slug of her Johnny Walker. There was the older man who couldn't stand up by himself and was so grateful for the boost up my friend gave him that the sandwiches overwhelmed him. There was the man who screamed about people chasing him. He was sitting still. He didn't need a sandwich.

And it wasn't about giving stuff to people and making myself feel good because honestly I didn't feel good because I was giving food to strangers. I kept thinking about how that food was not enough to make a difference in their lives and when you think that? It's hard to feel good about giving out sandwiches and crackers.

What did seem cool however was making the connection, hanging out and talking to people, even if it was just for a minute. There was one guy who said, "You don't know… Just you not fast walking by… Just making eye contact. That means something, you know?"

And I do know. We walk by so many people in our lives, not making eye contact, not interacting, not taking the time to wonder about their stories and lives and pain. I'm not talking just about transients or the homeless or whatever label you want to use. I'm talking too about people in the grocery store line, people rushing out of convention halls with lanyards around their necks, people who are our neighbors, people who are not.

This world is a great big community and part of what takes the pain and the loneliness away can be connections. Writers like Libba Bray become warriors with every truth they write, every story they sing out. All of us humans are really just fighting for connections, for self worth, for a way to fill up that hole inside of you. Libba writes about this hole:

Other times, it’s as if a hole is opening inside you, wider and wider, pressing against your lungs, pushing your internal organs into unnatural places, and you cannot draw a true breath. You are breaking inside, slowly, and everything that keeps you tethered to your life, all of your normal responses, is being sucked through the hole like an airlock emptying into space.

I don't know how to fill up other people's holes. I don't even know how to fill up the gasp inside of me, but I do know that we need to recognize the sorrow and joy in other people's lives, respect them and love them despite their flaws, despite their sadness or even because of that sadness. What being human should be about is caring and connections. We need a world that cares that up skirting should be illegal, that cares that people go hungry, that wants to stop people being killed for just speaking their political views or for loving who they love or for being a certain religion or race or ethnicity, we need a world where politicians don't make excuses for rape. We need a world and a community that isn't about judging but is about ascending. We need more people like Libba, more people open and honest about their truths. We need more people making connections. That is what I learned on my birthday this year. I hope I don't forget it and start fast walking again. I hope I learn to take the time to communicate with others in a way that's more than a status update or a tweet.

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  • Mon, 02:37: With a name like Eugene you kind of have to be a scientist or in American Pie or a writer or future zombie or politician #thewalkingdead
  • Mon, 02:56: Dude, if you are smarter than him, why the mullet? Why? Why? For the love of all things holy why? #thewalkingdead

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21. My tweets

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23. What Writers Make

I am not supposed to say what I make a year. My agent told me this and I'm totally okay with listening to him because:

1. He is my agent
2. I love him.
3. He is like the knight who battles the industry on my behalf, taking his paltry 15% as he jousts over contracts and attacks people who steal books on the internet and listens to me cry.

However, it is hard not to talk about it because lately all I've been seeing is posts about publishing the old school way (traditional, the publisher pays you, your books are in print with ebooks secondary) and publishing the new school way (self, only digital, you might pay an editor and cover designer).

And it is all sort of cranky. I think it is meant to be helpful - all that data - all that opinion - and for some people it probably is helpful, but for me it is soul crushing.

These posts about income and money and the "business" of writing make me hyperventilate. Seriously. When I see average salaries and negative posts about writing and money and the end of eras and dinosaurs and anything that includes the words "predictions," "dire," "evil," or "money," I pretty much shut down and think, "HOLY CANOLI POOPSCAPE, HOW WILL I EVER MAKE MONEY WRITING?"

*I don't really think "poopscape." I am trying not to swear.

And I've been trying to figure out why I have this reaction when I actually do make a living writing.

When I started writing, I expected to make no money and honestly I was pretty cool with that. The opportunity to write stories that people actually read was pretty freaking amazing to me. Back then all I heard was:

1. It takes 10 years to publish.
2. You will be rejected a hundred times.
3. If your book is not perfect you will not get published.
4. If your book is not hip, you will not get published.
5. If you are not hot-as-swear-word, rich, know editors in the business, your dad is not Rupert Murdoch, you will not get published.

And then there were these lovely nuggets:

6.  You will never make a living. Ever. Unless you publish with the big publishers.
7.  You will never feel safe financially. Ever. Unless you are J.K. Rowling, Meg Cabot, James Patterson, and possibly John Greene.
8. You can not switch genres. People (reviewers) hate that.
9. You can not write about sex, gay people, human-sized pixies.
10. You will never ever ever make a living. Ever.

And every time I read any of that? I pretty much felt my heart turn to ash. Luckily, my heart is a kick-ass phoenix and rebuilds.

I was super lucky. I proved a lot of that stuff wrong.

1. It took me a year to publish.
2. I was rejected, but not 100 times. I still get rejected. I am like that goober girl at the seventh grade dance who asks EVERY SINGLE attractive person to dance to Blurred Lines until someone finally says yes.
3. I make a living (right now) writing even though I have written across genres and I am not hot or rich and my dad was a truck driver.

And I think the reason why I make a living right now writing is that:

1. I do ask everyone to dance and when they shudder at the thought I am totally okay with that.
2. I practice my dance moves constantly even between rejections.

So, what I'm trying to say here is that if you want to write, write. If you want to make a living writing, write as much as you can and work on  your craft and don't obsess about marketing and how to publish, just write a story that makes you happy or that thrills you or that you must tell. If you chose this as your career, try to enjoy it. Write for fun and for craft and for truth and for money last if possible. Write and write and write and blow off everyone who tells you that you can't unless you do x and y and z.

Just write.

And I realize that I can say this because I am currently making a living writing, but I have also realized that I can also say this because I am used to being poor. Before I was a writer, I was a newspaper editor (@$24,000/year) who also freelanced articles and taught gymnastics at the Y to get by. My dad never made more than $22,000 a year, I guess. It might have been $23,000. Making money is kind of crazy to me. So, I feel blessed and lucky to make a living writing. But if I didn't? I wouldn't stop writing. I would go back to being something like a dispatcher for police departments or beg people to hire me as a reporter or whatever. Because that's the thing about stories. If you want to tell them, you tell them. And yes, it is a business, but the business part of it can take the truth out of your stories and the joy out of your soul. Don't become overwhelmed with those posts about making money and not making money and how to or how not to. Just write. Okay? I want to read your stories.

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25. Reblogging for a Writer

Someone forgets I pay attention, sweetheart. As I've said a few times before, you're going to have to wait until July for anything further. If NZ does extradite Dotcom, they can do the same to me when and if the Feds ask. Too bad they've had to wait two and a half years, kike bitch.

Asked by Anonymous

I apologize for the language above, but it is left whole to show a rather ugly point.

So: My ask box is closed now.

And I’m doing something very, very, very rarely do, and my friends have been begging me to do about this whole thing since day one: meet it head on.

The above ask was sent in by my stalker. This is why my ask box remains closed.

Maybe it is time to show what stalking really is and does.

Imagine getting messages, the type of which make the above seem mild and sweet (add in sexual threats, death threats, and vows to be up to this forever), any time you have any ability for anyone to contact you.

Every day. At times multiple times a day, sometimes in a stream of messages that clog your inbox.

And when you never once address that, they start contacting your friends, your sister, your parents. Your brother in law. Your infant nephew/godson.

Threatens them consistently. Sends them packages. Sends them postcards. Looks up their private info and parades it in front of them.

For 5.5 years.

Things that thus far haven’t helped: An arrest. An international warrant. International attention. Stays in mental health facilities. Nothing deters this behavior.

Stalking is one of the crimes that takes the victim out of the equation, because of how likely it is that being in it exacerbates the situation. And if we do nothing and let the world exist like this, we are enabling a kind of malice that could threaten the very positive
and at times powerful ways we exchange ideas and connect to each other.

The Internet is the wild west, and at some point the cavalry’s gotta come in, here.

The FBI has been amazing but are limited by a foreign nation’s wish to completely ignore a situation that has been proven many times over to exist.

I can only be so defiant in private while balancing the need for my and my family’s safety.

You may think, “I’ve seen her at LeakyCons, she’s not affected by this at all!” Never make an assumption by the strength someone is able to project that they are unaffected. And never assume that someone who doesn’t give her life over to something negative completely - disappear from the internet, etc - doesn’t deserve just as much peace and justice as those whose lives lose major functions because of this activity. There is sometimes a paternalistic rise in compassion that rises to meet the level to which a person has been affected. If we start judging that way, we forget that no matter the victim and no matter the effect, the crime is the same and it must be stopped.

So there you go. A glimpse into my life.

If you wish to stand against stalking, please reblog; and as a bonus, please add your own thoughts about the necessity that a country’s law enforcement agency (in this case New Zealand’s) starts to take this seriously.

I have been stalked in different ways, in varying measures in my life. This is Carrie talking, not Melissa, the writer who is going through the above and who has gone through it for over five years. Stalking can be profoundly harrowing and it is never okay. Her ordeal needs to stop. Please reblog if you can. xo- Carrie

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