Author: Ken MacGregor

I’ve been submitting (and occasionally selling) fiction for more than six years now, and I’ve learned some stuff. One of the most important was to be myself.
I read a lot, across several genres, and ‘literary’ fiction; I even read nonfiction now and again, but usually it’s about writing, or it’s really, really funny. Or cool.
Some of the stuff I read is terrible. Once I know beyond a doubt (usually only takes a few pages, but for a novel, I’ll go as far as fifty to make sure) that I’m not enjoying it, I put it down and read something else. I don’t have time to read bad writing (unless I’m being paid to edit something; then, it’s a job, and I’ll see it through no matter how painful).
Some of it is magical. Some writers are so good at what they do, you can’t help but smile at their sentences. You get a warm, tickly feeling from their prose. I love it when I find that. Makes reading a genuine pleasure.
Now, here’s the thing: I want to be that good. I want readers to freak out because they love my words. I mean, who here doesn’t? But, I’m not those writers whom I adore. I’m me. And, some people are going to like what I write (hopefully some already do. Doesn’t matter, though. I’ll keep screaming into the void regardless). Some people are probably going to hate me. That’s fine, too. I write a lot of nasty stuff. I don’t expect it to be universally appealing.
In the past, I have come away from reading something amazing, and metaphorically smashed my head against the wall, because I’m convinced I’m never going to be that good at this. I’ll never write that well. Ever.
And, you know what? That’s okay. I’m not going to try to be one of my heroes. I’m not going to try to emulate any other w, iter, no matter how much I love them. Because, that wouldn’t be me.
I’d like to win awards. I’d like to sell thousands (nay! Millions!) of books. Of course I would. And, someday, maybe I will. Maybe not. I can’t really control the vagaries of public opinion or what’s popular at any given time.
You know what I can control, though? I can control what I write. I can try to make each story better than the last. I can fall in love with my characters, and enjoy putting them through hell. I can tell stories I want to read, and hope at least a few other people find them entertaining.
If you’re new at this writing thing, here’s the trick: you, and you alone, have your voice. I can’t explain how to fine-tune this thing. I can’t tell you what it even is, really. But, it’s yours. No one else has your voice. You own that shit. You do you. That’s the only thing you can control, and the one thing that matters most.
Sure, learn from other writers. Learn from books about writing. Learn from blog posts about writing (like this one [winky emoji]). Learn by listening to people talk, watching people move around, and paying attention to everything around you. But, be you. Don’t be anyone else.
And me? I’m gonna over here, in the big, comfy, ugly-ass green recliner, being me.
Thanks for listening.

I use the term “mid-list” with a certain amount of pride, but also a healthy dose of humility, I think. I have been selling stories for six years now, sometimes at professional rates, mostly not. I’ve been asked to write for specific calls, which is flattering as hell. Unfortunately, I’ve not been able to make the deadlines for most of those, which makes me feel like an ass.

I’ve edited a novel and three anthologies of other people’s stuff. I’m reading slush for a small press.

I have a small, but loyal, fan base.

I’ve got some chops.

However, I’m far from well-known. In some horror circles, my name might be recognized, but more likely I’d get a “who? Never heard of him.”

And, I’m okay with that. I really am. It’s cool. I mean, sure, I’d love to be well-known. I’d love to make it, to have my books explode and have readers gushing about me. I’d love to be able to quit my day job (I wouldn’t though, because I like my day job, and I’ve got damn good bennies, but having the option would be cool as hell).

There are writers who are doing it for a living, and I admire the hell out them. Some are wildly successful, and I think that’s awesome! I applaud them. I’m excited for them. Yay!

Which brings me to the point of this post. In the last six years, I’ve learned a lot about, not just writing, storytelling, and publishing, but also about how to conduct myself.

Things I will not do, and would strongly encourage you not to do as well are:

1. Don’t be an asshole. You would think this is obvious, right? Apparently, it’s not. Shrug.
2. Don’t shout “BUY MY BOOK” in my face every five minutes. Buddy. Calm down. I get it: you’re excited. That’s cool. I get pumped when something new comes out, too, but tone it down, okay? The more you hit me over the head with how badly you want me to buy your shit, the more I don’t want to. Think about that for a minute, okay? Yeah. Cut it out.
3. On a related note, don’t pimp your shit when people ask for reading recommendations. This is tacky as hell. It’s like the unsolicited dick pic of writer behavior. No one wants to see that; keep it in your pants. But, go ahead and recommend your writer friends’ stuff, if you like it. Don’t do it just because they’re your friends, because books you recommend reflect on you. If you pimp shitty books, no one will trust you, and won’t want to read your stuff.
4. Don’t get on social media drunk. Just don’t. It won’t end well. I trust I don’t have to explain this one to anyone.
5. Support your fellow writers. If someone you know has a new book, share that shit. Celebrate their successes (I know I’m repeating myself, but this bears it) with them. Get their work in front of readers. The more books sold in general, the better for all of us. It’s not a competition. My success doesn’t mean you lose. There’s no downside. Do this, and do it a lot.
6. Be yourself. Seriously. You’re interesting. You are a fascinating person. No one else is you. People want to know who you are beyond your stories. You don’t need to hide behind some public persona, and (unless you’re hiding from a stalker), you should not. I see a few horror writers especially who create this whole dark, scary persona, who try to come across as Evil Incarnate. Yeah. Lighten up, Francis.
7. Keep at it. Even when you’re tired, or depressed, or frustrated, you need to hit the keys (or grab the pen, or talk into your voice-recorder thing). I’m not saying you have to write every damn day, but you do have to write. We’re writers. That’s what we do. It’s cool to take breaks. I do that. I go for days without writing sometimes. When I do that, I usually read a lot, or sometimes edit, or both. But, I always get back to writing. Because, ultimately, that’s where the fun is. Making shit up. I love that.
8. Always strive to be better. Read authors whose words sing. Study books on writing (there are some damn good ones out there). Up your game. Read poetry (I personally don’t care for poetry, but it’s a good exercise in controlling language, using the fewest amount of words possible, and it’s good for you). Read bad stuff, too, so you know how not to do it (I highly recommend reading slush: you’ll read a lot of terrible fiction, but once in a while, you’ll find something brilliant, too).
9. Listen to feedback. Unless it’s from a reader who says something vague like, “this sucks,” or “you’re awesome, dude!” This is not constructive. Real feedback, especially from editors (frequently found in rejection letters) can improve your writing immensely. Pay attention. Use it. If they took the time to say something, it means you’re on the right track.
10. Enjoy yourself. I mean that. If you’re not having a good time writing, if it’s torturous to get the words out, maybe you should stop. If I’m having fun writing something, I’m fairly confident a reader will have fun reading it. If it’s a chore, well, you see where I’m going with this.

All right. That’s all I got for now. Not sure if any of this helps, or if any of you needed my unsolicited advice, but I had to get it off my chest. So, I feel better anyway. Thanks for listening.

(satire)

 

Probably, like me, you’ve been told your whole life that you need to save, Save, SAVE!

Set up that nest egg, that rainy day fund; make sure you have enough when you retire.

 

Where’s the fun in that?

 

Okay, so you might find it difficult to kick the saving habit. I’m here to help.

There’s something you’re probably doing already, that you can increase with surprising ease

Drink more coffee!

If you drink, say, two cups a day now, drink five! And none of that “free refill” nonsense either. Go to different cafes; don’t bring your own cup (they give you discounts for that). And, if you drink the regular stuff, switch to lattes; they cost at least twice as much.

And the best part? You just piss it all away!

Speaking of which, alcohol is another great choice: not only is it even more addictive than caffeine, it’s also more expensive.

You may be a collector. I know I am. Now, here you have to be careful. Things like stamps, coins and baseball cards can actually increase in value. Nobody wants that.

I used to play Magic the Gathering. When I finally kicked the habit, I sold all of my cards (some 200 or so) at once at a con. I had two Mox Pearls and a Black Lotus; I got $10 for all three. Nowadays, those are worth hundreds, if not thousands of dollars! The key is getting rid of them in a timely fashion, before they appreciate too much.

But, hey! If you somehow miss that window, it’s okay. Remember, trading cards are made of paper, and paper is flammable. In fact, so is money!

 

Stop working. Right now. This instant. Walk up to your boss, look them straight in the eye, and let them know just how much you really hate them. Then, because this might not actually be enough to get you fired (especially if you’re in a union), pee on their shoes. This is easier for people with penises, but manageable for everyone if you’re willing to put a little effort into it.

That, right there, will drastically decrease money coming in, and make it so much easier to get rid of what you have. You see how easy it can be?

 

Give whatever you might have saved up away to a charity, but don’t get a receipt. This is crucial, because, at the end of the year, you could get money back in taxes. Nobody wants that.

If you have a car, leave it running somewhere. Don’t worry; someone will steal it, even in a nice neighborhood. Teenagers, in particular, just can’t resist going for a joyride.

But, please, make sure you don’t have insurance on it. It’s important to plan ahead.

If you own a home, great! Most of your money is already going into paying for it! However, if you’re not careful, a house can actually become more valuable. Be sure you don’t fix anything! It’s also helpful to leave your doors and windows open at all times, so that wildlife can come in and help destroy your environment. Bonus: thieves will have full access to your other possessions, which frees you up from having to find other ways to get rid of them.

If you rent, even better! You’re basically throwing your money away! I strongly suggest you also rent your furniture and appliances, too; this is a great way to hemorrhage your cash.

Did you know you can rent cars, too? Find a really nice one: they cost a freakin’ ton every month.

 

Well, there you have it. In no time at all, you can be freed of your worldly assets, and live your life not having to worry about paying the bills or sending the kids to college.

No responsibilities. No pressures. No cash.

For the complete how-to guide and workbook, please send $17,000 to Ken MacGregor. It’s a great start!

I’d like to believe I’m sensitive to people’s feelings. I would. And, I think, for the most part, I am. But, I gotta tell ya, this whole “trigger warning” thing has gone too damn far.

I recently heard from a guy who does stand-up comedy, in a New York City burlesque club, that he got complaints about his material. Someone felt that they needed a “safe space” and that his material had “triggered” an upsetting emotional response.

I’m sorry, but … WHAT?!? It’s comedy. It’s supposed to push the envelope, to shock, to disturb. Why the hell were you in a burlesque club for a comedy show in the first place? Why were you even outside of your cozy little room, if you’re so sensitive you can’t take a joke?

(Takes a deep breath to calm down, so he can type again without bashing the keys)

All right. So, let’s talk about trigger warnings and books. I write horror, among other things, as, I imagine, do many of you. I’ve written some pretty sick shit, too. Body parts being hacked off, people being eaten, genital mutilation (yeah, I went there) and other stuff I won’t mention here because it’s too gross.

I’m pretty sure some of that stuff is going to trigger a reaction. In fact, I’m counting on it. I want to spur an emotional response in my readers. I want them to care about the characters, to really develop a meaningful attachment to them. That way, when I stick a knife in the character’s lower back, severing the spine and paralyzing them from the waist down, the reader feels it¸ too.

Here’s my take on the whole thing: if you feel something might be upsetting to you, that it might cause some trauma to resurface from the depths of your subconscious … don’t go anywhere near that thing. Simple, right?

If you’re reading horror, or, say, going to a comedy show (in a burlesque club in NYC!), you should be prepared to experience some shit you might find disturbing. And, you shouldn’t expect an apology from the writer/comedian/whatever.

You sure as shit shouldn’t demand one.

It’s not my job to protect you from the things that might hurt you. It’s your job to protect yourself. Stop blaming the artists for your own discomfort. Screw you. You know what my job is? It’s to make you uncomfortable.

So, yeah. With all due respect to people who’ve had traumatic experiences (haven’t we all?), it’s on you to stay away from the stuff that’ll trigger you. It’s not up to me. It’s not up to the stand-up comic. We’re supposed to be edgy. We’re expected to be dangerous.

If you want someone to hold your hand in the darkness, fine. No problem.

But don’t ask me to do it. You’re likely to pull back a stump.

Okay, so this is HorrorTree, right? So, I’m going to go out on a limb here, and assume that the majority of the people reading this are, in fact, horror writers. Or at least writers who dabble in horror. Dabbling in horror sounds ridiculous. Like “dabbling in murder.” Which I may have to use somewhere, ’cause I like the sound of it.

Anyway, I, at least, write horror. I write other stuff, too: fantasy, (light) SF, and even kids’ stuff. All under my own name. I catch flak for this once in a while. People are all like, “You write erotic horror (I do) and children’s books under the same name?!? What if someone reads your kids’ books and decides to see what else you write?”

Um, great! As long as they don’t show my erotic horror to their kids, I don’t see a problem. And, even if they do, that is not on me. That’s horrible parenting. Not my fault. I sure as hell don’t show the nasty stuff to my own kids. Hell, I don’t even show the creepy, unsettling stuff to my kids. When they’re older, sure, if they want to read it. But, no way am I going to scar my children for life as they read graphic depictions of torture and dismemberment (along with a joke or two, usually). They can read that stuff when they’re teens, I guess. But, not the erotic stuff. They aren’t reading that until they’re, I don’t know, thirty? Maybe when I’m dead. I don’t want them to have to look at me afterward, to know the kind of sick, evil stuff that goes on in my mind.

My six-year-old, after I said “Hi” to about four total strangers in a row (she and I were walking home from the park), asked me why I did that.

“I’m being friendly,” I said. “I like to be friendly. I think the world would be a better place if more people took the time to say ‘hello’.”

She said, “Okay, yeah, but why are you friendly? You write horror.”

I explained that I write horror to get rid of the ugly, unpleasant things in my mind. To give an outlet to the more disturbing, awful thoughts we all have. And, in a way, this makes it easier for me to be friendly. I’m generally in a pretty good mood most days. I don’t think it’s all because I get the icky stuff out in fiction. I have a lot to be happy about, too. But, you know, I think it helps. Maybe a lot. Most of the horror writers I have met are really nice people. Some of the sickest people on the page are some of the kindest and most supportive friends you could ever want.

Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not.

Which brings us back to my original topic for this particular Brain Baby: how are we supposed to compete? What do I mean? I mean the real world, folks. The real, sick, twisted, violent world.

I’m trying to wrap my head around everything that’s going on around me right now, and to tell you the truth, I’m having a hell of a hard time.

Cops are killing people because of the color of their skin. Snipers are shooting cops. Terrorists are blowing up buildings, trains, buses, themselves. The presumptive Republican President of the United States is a bombastic, hate-spewing bigoted Oompa Loompa with a dead mongoose on his head. His opponent damn near went to jail.The potential leaders of the free world, folks!  Kids – high school kids – are walking into schools and shooting their classmates. And, most of this is happening right here in America. In the good ol’ U.S. of A. My home. My backyard.

What the unholy hell, world?

In the face of this, I wonder why I even bother. How do I compete with such utter appalling atrocities? And, why should I? I’ve had people tell me, “I don’t read horror. The real world is bad enough.”

They’re right. The real world is bad enough.

But, here’s the thing. I’m gonna keep on writing it. You know why? Because, as I told my daughter, I do this to get the icky stuff out of my system, to make it easier for me to be a happy person, to be friendly.

And, maybe, just maybe, something I write will resonate with a reader. Maybe one of my stories will speak to someone who is on the edge of doing something ugly, something in the real world, something permanent.

I know it’s a long shot. I know my stuff may never do anything more than entertain (I hope it entertains. Or makes your skin crawl. That’s entertaining. For me.) But, what if it works? What if someone reads one of my horror stories and thinks, “I get this! I have all this horrible stuff in my head, too! I need to write it down, maybe get someone to read it. Maybe get it published.”

And, if that happens, ladies and gents (and others), maybe the world will have another horror writer, maybe a damn good one. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll have one less horrible statistic. One less young life lost. One less hate crime.

I don’t know if what we do makes a whole lot of difference, but I hope so. If we, as writers, can make even a little difference, make the world a little less terrible, then it’s worth every rejection. It’s worth all the research, the editing, the self-doubt.

‘Cause, unless something changes, this world is doomed.

Thanks for listening.

Recently, a writer friend (who shall remain nameless because I didn’t ask if I could talk about this) stated that they might just be done trying to be a writer. The reason they gave (see how careful I’m being about using gender-neutral pronouns?) was that the industry seems driven by cronyism (my word choice) and numbers (I imagine this is alluding to boosting sales via pushing rankings on the various book-buying platforms, but again, I didn’t ask).

I said, in a nutshell, Hey! Don’t let that stuff get you down. I said that, while I haven’t made more than a few thousand (dollars, not words – I’ve made a few hundred thousand of those) over the last five years, I’ve made some amazing connections with some super-cool people. Hell, I even wrote a book with one of them. We are still impatiently waiting for that to come out. I also said that what really matters, to me anyway, are the readers.

So what if I’m not ever going to be a New York Times bestselling author? So what if I never quit my day job (I actually like my day job. How crazy is that?)? So what if they never make a movie out of one of my stories? Again. I’d like to point out here that there is, in fact, a 16-minute short film out there that I wrote, co-directed, co-produced, and acted in. It’s on YouTube, all free and shit. Called “The Quirk and the Dead.” It’s a horror/comedy, zombie love story. Go check it out. I can wait. No, really. It’s funny.

(Sixteen minutes later.)

Good, right? Thanks. I’m really proud of that one. It was nominated for an award at one of the film festivals. Didn’t win, but that’s cool.

I’ve completely lost track of where I was going with this. Oh yeah! Why we write. I remember now.

So, I said to this person, and am clearly elaborating far more here (and plugging my movie – did you watch it? No? What are you waiting for? Go. This will still be here.), the reason we write is not to get famous. It’s not to make a bunch of money.

It’s for the readers.

When someone reads something of mine, someone I’ve never met before, someone maybe on the other side of the world, takes the time to seek me out, to tell me something I wrote moved them in some way… My god – that is an amazing thing.

So, I tried to impart to this other writer, who was clearly experiencing a crisis of faith in themselves, that it’s not about the numbers, or who you know (their words this time). It’s about the readers.

It’s about getting the words out, and trying to make each new story better than the last. It’s about sharing these crazy little Brain Babies with the world and maybe, just maybe, connecting with someone who just gets it.

So, my fellow scribes, wordsmiths, hacks (I use this in the complimentary way, like when you’re such good friends with someone you say, “What’s up, dickhead?” – Other people do this, right? It’s not just me?), if ever you are feeling (and who among us does not, from time to time) that the whole thing is worthless, pointless, that you’re never going to “make it”, take heart. It’s not about you, babe. It’s about the reader. That’s why we are doing this.

Never forget that.

First of all, I call everybody “man” or “dude” or some such. I don’t assign gender to anything except genitals. And, even then, only to my own. Yours are none of my business.

With that out of the way, I’d like to talk about how to beat the hell out of your characters and why.

Okay. First of all, let’s clear the air about one thing: I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume you are horror (or at least dark speculative fiction) writers. We are not talking about romance, or YA or light fantasy where everyone lives happily ever after. Those stories are fine. Some people like them. So I hear.

Me? I like to hurt my fictional playthings. A lot.

Let’s start with why, shall we? Okay. This should be obvious, but I’ll say it anyway, just in case you’re one of those writers who feels guilty about hurting people.

Make your characters suffer!

Because (we’re doing “why” remember?), if they are not suffering, they are boring.

Nobody wants to read about Tommy Twiddlefingers having a nice day, sipping a latte and having pleasant discourse with his boyfriend, Benjamin Twatwaffle. Not because they’re gay either. That part, at least is mildly interesting. But, it’s only interesting if it draws a rabid, slavering homophobe into the story who wants to kill them both and mount their dicks on the hood of his car.

Otherwise, people having a nice time is boring as hell. Nobody cares. You need to heap abuse on your characters. Especially the protagonist. Make them bleed. Copiously.

Break his bones. Ruin her life. Turn everyone they love against them. Beat them down.

Sorry. I get excited about this.

Okay. Moving on the “how” of things. I know I just touched on it in general terms, but I’d like to get a little more specific.

Of course, we know that we need to hook the reader with the first couple lines, right? Especially in today’s world where your average person has a four-second attention span.

Still with me? Good.

So, hook ‘em. Get ‘em interested enough to keep reading. Then, you start small.

Let’s say Tommy of the unfortunate surname is heading out to meet his heart’s desire at the cafe. Benjamin had texted him saying, coffee, usual place now. But, when Tommy steps to the curb, wearing his fly as hell chinos, Bam! A car hits a mud puddle, splashing it up to his thighs.

Tommy’s pissed, but whatever, they’re just pants, right? So, he walks on. The man needs his coffee.

He’s almost to the cafe, when a couple dudes see the rainbow lettered “PRIDE” on Tommy’s T-shirt. One hits the other’s arm. He mouths “fag” and points at Tommy with his chin.

Tommy sighs. He rolls his eyes.

“Look, fellas. I don’t want any trouble. I’m just heading out for some coffee. I’ve already been splashed with mud. Give a guy a break, huh?”

One of the dudes grins, gives an exaggerated shrug and slaps Tommy on the face, open palm.

“Damn degenerate,” he says. He and his friend laugh. They jostle Tommy as they pass him, nearly knocking him on the sidewalk.

With a handprint clearly visible on his cheek, and wet, muddy pants, Tommy enters the cafe with wide eyes, verging on tears. That slap hurt!

(So, here’s the moment where you give your protagonist a tiny reprieve. You let them think everything’s going to be okay after all. It’s not.)

When Benjamin sees Tommy, and the state he’s in, he rushes over.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ll live. Rough morning. And, I could really use that latte.”

They order, and sit silently for a bit. Benjamin is waiting patiently to speak. Tommy senses it.

“What’s up? You look like you’re about to burst.”

“Oh, Tommy. I’ve met someone else. I’m sorry.”

Tommy is stunned.

“You asked me out to coffee to break up with me? Jesus, Ben.” He shakes his head, blows on the coffee and takes a sip. “Who is he? Anyone I know?”

“She.”

“I was so horrible, you’re leaving not just me, but our whole gender?”

“You’re not horrible, Tommy. What a thing to say.”

“Then why are you leaving me?”

Benjamin won’t meet his eyes.

“You’re … boring.”

 

There. You have (I guess it was me, but go on, take some credit; I don’t mind.) successfully beat this guy down. You made him miserable. You upped the stakes!

If anyone wants to get pissy about gay-bashing here, I’d like to point out that I regularly beat the shit out of straight characters, too. I don’t discriminate. If you’re in my story, hell with you! You’re going down, baby.

That’s the other thing about being horrible to your characters: not only should you do it, because it makes a better read … it’s fun!

Sure, people say it’s cathartic. Gets all the venom out of your system so you’re a nicer person. And, yeah, there’s probably some truth to that. But really? It’s fun. I enjoy it.

Thanks.

I recently saw a discussion on Facebook (which is, sadly where most of my social interaction takes place these days) about self-publishing vs traditional publishing. The theme wasn’t so much about the validity of either approach or the potential benefits of one or the other. Which, since you are all writers, I imagine you have at least a passing understanding of those things, so I won’t go into it. We all know trad-pubbed writers and self-pubbed writers and I imagine most of us are one or the other, or both. I myself have only gone the trad-pub route so far. I may dabble in self-pub at some point, just to see what it’s like.

Anyway, the point here is that some people (on both sides) are casting aspersions on the other way of doing it. Self-pubbers are slamming trad-pubbers for giving away some of their profits; Trad-pubbers are slamming self-pubbers for, I’m not really sure, doing all the work themselves, maybe? I have a hard time finding issue with self-publishing. I mean, you put up all the money, do all the work and reap all the reward. Where’s the problem?

My only negative experience with self-publishing was this: I asked a local bookstore if they would carry one of my books. Without even looking at it, they said, “We don’t carry self-published books.” When I explained that it was out of a small press in New York, they looked at it. A few minutes later, they said, “No thanks.” So, yeah. Didn’t matter much who put it out, I guess. Not that I’m bitter.

Now, this particular topic got me thinking about something that bugs the shit out of me: shaming.

Race-shaming; fat-shaming; skinny-shaming; gender-shaming; class-shaming; religion-shaming; any kind of shaming at all. It boils down to making someone feel like shit because of who they are, and that, folks, is about at horrible as it gets.

Now, I’m a 49-year-old white guy of average height who has a decent job and a house (which I bought damn cheap, but I own), two kids and a working car. What do I know about being on the wrong end of shaming? Well, first of all, who hasn’t been the victim of it at some point? When I was younger, I had hair down to my lower back. I got called a “faggot” and a “hippie” and a “freak” plenty of times. I got followed by security guys when I went to upscale stores. I got harassed by cops a lot. Because I had long hair. Asinine. I still get crap from people because I have tattoos, though not as much now, as most people seem to have them. When I was 19 and got my first one, I caught a lot of flack for it. That doesn’t even bother me anymore, though. A man said to me a few years ago, “You have a lot of tattoos to work at a library.” I shrugged, smiled and said, “I have a lot of tattoos everywhere I go.”

So, I’ve been there. Been told I’m inferior, been told to conform, to fit it. I’m not having it. I like who I am and I don’t particularly care if you don’t like me.

Not every lifestyle, or fashion choice, or sexual proclivity is for everyone. We all have our own thing we get into. That’s what makes this world the wonderful, messy, stinky, diverse, exciting stew of madness it is. I wouldn’t want it any other way.

So, please, everybody, stop being shitty to people who are different from you. Because it’s a dick move. No more shaming.

I don’t care if you self-pub, trad-pub, write stories in pink ink on a dry erase board naked in the bathtub. We’re all writers here. We’re all human beings. We all have feelings that are oh-so-easily hurt. So, please. Be nice. Don’t judge.

Stop shaming.

A little love and understanding goes a long, long way. Peace.

 

Ken MacGregor 2016