About Guenevere Bludfellow

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Posts by Guenevere Bludfellow:

A Twisted Nightmare


Cap courtesy of Michael Kelly

I wish I could say I was surprised to see a screencap making the rounds of Twisted Dreams editor Andrea Dean Van Scoyoc lambasting a writer for asking what her pay rates were. Instead, I thought, “Huh. So my instinct was right.”

I submitted a story to Twisted Dreams Magazine in 2006. For those of you pointing out the garish web design and poor copy, it could be worse. Its only presence could still be a badly managed Myspace page. After Andrea offered what was meant to be helpful criticism (she didn’t understand that the ambiguity was intentional and suggested I explain, in detail, where the bloody body parts had come from), I tweaked it, resubmitted, and it went on to appear in the spring issue that April. I was stoked at the time. I was still naive enough to think that exposure was reward enough and that having to buy my own copy (my mother was so proud) was a sort of career investment. The red flags didn’t become clear until years later, and I kept waiting for someone else to bite the bullet and point them out so I could feel better about thumping the cover whenever I pass the magazine rack beside my desk. Yes, I do that. No, I don’t know why I haven’t just tucked it away in the back. It’s the emo in me, all right?

I won’t comment on Andrea’s “best selling” books or her role as a “trail blazer” in the field. But it’s pretty damn obvious that as an editor/publisher, she has a lot to learn. Or would have if she hadn’t dug her own grave.

It’s not just that her guidelines are ridiculous. It’s not just that she offers zero compensation. It’s not just that the website is an utter mess. It’s everything, and her attitude toward potential authors is particularly off-putting. It reeks of “I’ve been in this business longer than you” and “look how edgy I can be!” For the record, Andrea was sweet as pie to me. I never felt intimidated or talked down to. Why the change? If you’re exasperated enough with what you deem unacceptable submissions to actually chastise your audience, then maybe it’s time to pack up your toys and go home. Is there anything wrong with writing for no pay, or offering only exposure for printing it? Of course not, within reason. But show some fucking appreciation for your writers. Bullying them will get you nowhere.

You can read my story “Dinner for Two,” which appeared in Twisted Dreams’s April 2006 issue, here.

ETA: While writing this post, I had Andrew Wolter’s open letter to the editor in another tab. It seems Andrea had something to say about it. I can’t not share her response, now can I?

ETA FEB 1st: Looks like someone slept on it and decided to heed Andrew’s advice, but not without a healthy dose of condescension.

Stage Fright

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Forced into doing a school play where I play second to the teacher’s “Sarah.” I’m meant to be the leading lady with one song where I lament about work before catching the eye of the lead, played by B. We’re late and instead of rehearsing the teacher decides to run through once with a paying audience. Outside the cafeteria, I put on my makeup and start going over the song but as it comes time to walk in I can’t remember enough of the words and back out. Flustered, I explain how I can’t bring myself to ruin the show further and the teacher steps in herself. Green screen effects are filmed on set and people grumble about it. One woman points out how the teacher’s topless in one scene (she’s drifting across the screen, acting as if she’s underwater) and another surrounded by kids squawks back at her that of all the things in the play, that’s what she’s upset about? They get into an argument about how mothers shouldn’t be ashamed of their bodies and I slump back in my chair.

I’m at a table with a bunch of rednecks who blame me for the play falling apart. They’re all in plaid and chewing snuff. One of them admits I would have been a better fit for the part. I hand the script over to the only one holding his tongue, who tells me he’s going to draw up an outline minus the songs so we can keep everything organized. Leaving, I pass him sitting at a typewriter and he hands me what he’s got so far. I walk up behind B. who’s carrying his dog Maggie, used during a green screen scene, only now her flowy red hair is cropped and white. She appears frozen in flight. He stops to chat with a woman and an old man missing his legs sitting in a small tub of sand on a bench. I stop and smile and they agree I should’ve been in the play. A large dried out insect — a bee or a fly — whines beside them and flexes its wings. They laugh, but everyone else flees and mutters how “that thing’s going to kill somebody.” We board a bus to leave, and I relax a little knowing the play wasn’t a disaster because of me.

– December 28, 2012

Small things ... 151/366
© Dennis Skley

Stone Jaw

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At a school function at the same table as Trey Parker and his girlfriend. A gaggle of girls are chatting farther down the row. Students are acting as waiters and taking orders but no one ever asks us what we want. I’m given a chicken sandwich smothered in green peppers when I see Trey’s left and people are filing out. I can’t remember whether or not I put my cell phone in my bag, and since our bags were collected and I don’t know where they are, I head towards Magnitude from Community intending to ask him. He’s sitting with his arms folded and his head down. There are three boxes of food in front of him that I assume he’s supposed to deliver. I set my cash down and he grabs it not realizing it’s mine, so I shove his boxes under a pile on the floor as I rummage through my pockets. He accuses me of trying to steal from him and says he thought I wasn’t like the others, waving the slip of paper at me that I’d written on earlier (we’d been directed to write affirmations or something at the beginning of the dinner). I start retching and stand over the nearest trash can. He says I’m acting. I gag that I have a panic disorder, pulling pieces of chewed paper from my mouth, but he’s already leaving.

Outside, I wander around in the rain with my hand over my mouth; it has swollen to the size of a softball and my tongue is poking out. A blue van I recognize stops ahead of me and someone waves at me from the cracked door. Sarah jumps out so I follow her. She stops to reassure her younger sister at the bus, and when she turns and sees me she screams. [Liz] catches up to us and starts crying, pleading for someone to help me as I’m clearly in pain. A nurse pulls me back inside and jabs a needle into my jaw, three spots on each side. She leaves me in a tiny room to fetch meds and I’m tempted to look in the mirror but can’t bring myself to do it.

– December 28, 2012

I woke up with a sore jaw and my chin and lips felt bloated and hard to the touch. This was the first of two dreams I had that day, the last I recorded for the year. Here’s the second.

The Cache

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The Cache

By the time we reached the bridge, we’d forgotten what we were searching for.

The location was new to us, a stretch of road off the highway about two miles farther than the GPS had directed us to go. We hadn’t crossed any bridges, where the cache was supposed to be, so we just kept going until we reached one. This wasn’t our first cache of the day; we had logged two others and given up on another when we agreed our choice of footwear wasn’t going to cut it. There was still an hour till dark and we were in the area, so we set out to find the next one on the list. The website had labeled it “Over the Bridge,” or something equally innocuous. We began calling it “the road that goes nowhere.”

We should have turned around, taken the U-turn the GPS kept shouting that we take. But the road eventually gave in and led us to not one but two bridges, the rusted monster our mother later remembered crossing years ago and its much newer, safer sibling. We parked on the shoulder and strode over the latter, wary of traffic and snakes. And after about ten minutes of peering into cracks and rolling over stones with the toes of our shoes, it was clear we weren’t going to find anything before the mosquitoes found us. With a collective sigh, we clamored back into the car and headed for home.

It didn’t occur to us until the next day that we’d had two other options. “Over the Bridge” was, as we’ve come to expect, a misleading title. The cache could’ve just as easily been placed in the shallow creek below or on the shaky bridge beside the road. Amusingly, we cross that stretch of road almost every day now. We mention it and point but none of us care enough to risk breaking a leg or having one bitten off by a gator just for a Tic-Tac and a scribble on a piece of paper. If we did manage to find it, we’d probably take it with us and lose it in a sea of junk. So for now, the cache remains safely out of our reach.

It’s also entirely possible we had the wrong bridge. But that doesn’t entertain us half as much.

2012: A Review

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My resolutions going into the year were simple enough. I intended to switch hosts and revamp the site, which I did. I wanted to read at least 50 books, a goal I’ve set every year for as long as I can remember but never reached. This year was no different, but I did manage to finish 34 which is a personal best. I wanted to write everyday and push out a novella; didn’t happen, but I spent more time fleshing out The Novel and I had two short stories published. Not bad.

The largest chunk of the year was spent searching and negotiating and packing. Yup, we’re moving house. Back to Dogtown proper but in a (hopefully) better location than before. While the circumstances are still crummy, this time we have some wiggle room and we’ll be bringing a few new family members along for the ride.

Someone stole our mailbox then someone else put up a brand new one in the span of an afternoon. That, or they backed into it and did the right thing by replacing it. But the first scenario’s funnier.

I released a small collection of poetry in late 2011 and earlier this year it received its first review. I had to save it, it made me smile.

Oh wow. This book stinks. Its all about blood and killing. If you get it, read it and you will agree. It was NOT for kids. Saying it is intense. You shouldn’t waste your money on things evn if they are free like this one. Instead read harry potter or percy jackson. VERY interesting. Even though they arent like this one, they are for kids. This is a book for adults and not saying it is bad on everything. It is really good to do song writing. I tryed it and this author is good.

“Duval Street” made Ellen Datlow’s honorable mentions list for 2011. I cut out caffeine. I set up Adam Cesare’s shiny new blog. I wrote pirate/ninja smut which surprised me by doubling as back story for one of my favorite characters. I squeed with Mercedes M. Yardley over her book. However brief, Tawny Kitaen started following me on Twitter.

So where to go in 2013? I want to finish 50 books by the end of the year, for real this time. Finish The Novel. I want to write at least 5 short stories (hey, that’s a leap for me!) and see them all published. I want to blog more often, say, twice a month at least. Find a writing group and stick with it. Join SFWA, HWA, or both. Start journaling again. I want to save $1,000 and pay off my credit cards. I want to paint something, even if I have to use a stencil. And I want to finish a meal in public without retching from the nerves.

To fresh starts and new beginnings. Happy New Year’s, all of you.

Happy Halloween!

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IT’S ALIVE. And it has a couple more stories under its belt.

Scary reading to cap off the night’s festivities? “Three Strikes” appears in the newest Shock Totem. Get your copy here. The final issue of Dark Recesses, featuring my story “Borderland Fancy,” is available as a free PDF through Cutting Block Press.

NaNoWriMo kicks off today, so I’ll just slink back into the shadows for a while. I’ll tweet my progress and share inspiration for my novel on Tumblr, if you’re interested in following along. And because I’m still in the holiday spirit, I leave you with this. Cheers.

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