Dear Depression: Thank You

A letter for depression, the illness that tries to kill me and, strangely, gives me reasons to stay alive, too. Depression, thank you for helping me recognize when I need to step back and take care of myself, to temporarily disengage from the real or imagined thoughts of readers, lovers, family. I feel like “too much” and “not enough” at the same time. I feel like I write too much and not enough, love too much and not enough, sleep too much and not enough… Depression, you have really fucked with me over the last seventeen (or twenty-seven) years, but without you, I would not have the life I currently have, the material of all the writing that keeps me alive and helps me find friends and communities and words. My zines and books would not exist without you.

Thank you, depression, for clarifying when you’ve arrived because my brain chemicals have gone all wonky again, or if you are here to reveal the outer forces (binaries! politics! freaking out over what “success” means! complicated communications and dealing with change!) trying to wreck my psyche. Thanks for sometimes responding to meds and sometimes not. Thanks for helping me figure out my Crazy politic, for helping me determine what is good for me and what is not. You made me an alcoholic and a fuck-up and I’m glad I’ve lived to tell it.

You’ve also taught me how to appreciate the little things. You are why I take pictures of flowers and graffiti, stop to pet strange animals on the street, read voraciously and constantly, write letters to my friends and other zinesters, cultivate feelings of ‘home’ wherever I go, and get tattoos. Thanks for coming back to remind me that I’m going through the Return of Saturn, and that it’s okay be twenty-seven and not feel okay, not feel satisfied, and to stay alive and keep trying to find ways feel content, loved, supported. You’ve left some scars on my body that will help me tell stories forever.

Thank you for daring me to make changes, for making it clear when I need to take time for myself to figure out my priorities. Thanks for all the lists and dreams and friends. Thanks for trying to kill me. Thanks for the rapture and the misery. I’m not trying to destroy, you know; I’m trying to live in harmony with you. I like you. I can’t imagine how to define my life, myself, without you. You are comfortable and familiar and I know you will be in my blood and my bones forever. It’s okay. Thanks for battling it out with mania, searching for a balance, and thank you for teaching me how to resist psychic death on the daily. Let’s do this together.

(Still) Depressingly Yours,
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P.S.: Photos I’ve taken over the last few days:

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{Click the images to make them bigger.} 1. Fucshia flowers hanging at a convenience store. 2. ‘you are enough’ graffiti on a bridge over traintracks. 3. Ivy growing over broken windows.

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4. Iced soy lattés, Sharpies, purple pencil crayons. 2. Fucshia flowers I brought home with me. 3. My little lavender plant.

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7. A house in a fancy neighbourhood – I’d like to have a writing nook in a turret someday. 2. My ‘protection from envy & harm’ candle. 3. A bouquet from a friend, delivered to one of my Quiet Parties.

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Dear Diary: Depression Makes Me Not Give a Fuck about Being a Good Friend

I might as well tell you the truth. I’m not doing very well right now. What does that mean? It means I’m going through another depression. It means I’m trying to fake confidence and hu$tle my words and act nice because I don’t know what else to do.

I’m still taking my meds, I’m still doing my usual self-care things, but I am feeling… “sad” is not a big enough word. Melancholy, despondent, angry, and yes, suicidal. The kind of suicidal that makes me bargain with myself: Live through Summer, and see if you still wanna kill yourself in September; wait ‘til you finish your second novel and see if you still wanna be dead.

I’m not a very good friend when I’m depressed. Although I desperately want to feel un-alone, my instinct when I’m depressed is to retreat. Inboxes on my various social media accounts fill up; if I don’t respond to a message right away, I get a second message to remind me that I haven’t responded; if I don’t write back to a message on Etsy, I get the same message on Facebook. Just so you know, this does not make me write back sooner; it stresses the hell out of me; it makes me want to disappear so I can focus on myself. While the internet is pretty much the best thing ever for my introvert weirdo self who needs to communicate but can’t always handle in-person contact, it also takes up so much space in my life that I feel like I am not allowed to take the time to take care of myself because there is always always always somebody on the other side of the screen waiting for me to acknowledge them. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but even when I love you, I sometimes just want you to leave me alone. My mental illnesses make me a Bad Friend sometimes, and a Bad Correspondent; they make me hate you and they make me hate myself.

Last week, I broke up with one of my best friends. It’s a long story and not something I want to write about on the internet, but suffice to say, the break-up, and the reasons I chose to no longer communicate with them, played a major role in triggering this current depression. For a few days, I was barely able to get out of bed or get dressed, and I refused to speak because I couldn’t find the words for what I was feeling. A week later, I took a Greyhound to Guelph to check the P.O. Box I hadn’t unlocked in more than a month. I didn’t want to return because I am having some strong feelings of rage about that town, but it’s where all my mail is being held until September, when I find a permanent address, so I had to go. While I was at the bus terminal in Toronto, I was sexually harassed by a stranger, who talked to me explicitly and at-length, while I remained trapped in the quiet corner I had chosen to sit, frozen, wishing I had the guts to scream and scare him away.

Gender dysphoria is something I don’t write/talk about much because, again, I cannot find the words, and I really don’t think anybody gives a fuck. But, another thing contributing to this current depression, is getting triggered by just about every gender-specific thing I read online (Ladyfest Everywheres, women-only writing groups, and boring white cis dudes trying to promote themselves at me, I’m glaring at you), and also, hating cis people, which is kind of a problem because 98% of my friends are cis, so what am I supposed to do? I’ve been struggling with feeling like a lot of the folks in my life are both Good Friends and Bad Allies at the same time; instead of talking to them about it, I turn my hatred inward. I cut myself and I go back to bed.

I had a lot of good, colourful mail waiting for me in my P.O. Box, but I haven’t opened most of it yet because I am struggling hard with trying to give a fuck, and I don’t have it in me to write back right now. The friend I broke up with has been showing up in my dreams every night, and when I wake up, I feel lonely and hateful.

My coping methods right now are: chugging coffee (my favourite antidepressant, though I feel incapable of communicating without being all hopped up on caffeine, and that is a problem), holding onto safety objects (right now, these are amethyst stones, flowers picked while wandering, and lavender-scented soap), reading Canadian fiction & memoirs & biographies, growing new plants, and writing & drawing in my diary.

I don’t know what else to tell you.

Depressingly Yours,
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TELEGRAM 29: The Process of Writing & Self-Publishing My First Novel

This is the story of how I began to write my first novel, and my self-publishing process. My goal with this issue of Telegram is to help demystify the process of novel-writing & self-publishing, encourage weirdo writers, and answer the questions a lot of friends have been asking me.

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When I started writing Ragdoll House, my queer young adult novel, I was struggling with alcoholism & loneliness, feeling pathetic & unloved, and trapped in my small hometown. In one of my many attempts to quit drinking, I set aside my usual drinking hours/days for writing instead. In Telegram 29, I write about how my Crazy (the word I am embracing for my lifelong mental health issues) inspired & influenced & interfered with my creativity; it’s all about writing for survival.

This zine documents the many changes in my life during the novel-writing process (moving six times, hospitalized countless times, coming out as genderqueer, developing a chronic pain condition, getting sober, etc…), growing up in & continuing to live in poverty and how that affects how I choose to write & share, some feelings about class & access to technology, dealing with the complications of jealousy (both feeling jealous of others and folks feeling jealous of me) and how making books has changed my friendships… I write about support and $upport, self-absorption vs. self-awareness, and my weird feelz about reading reviews.

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One of the most important parts of this zine, for me, is sharing my feelings about putting yet another story about cis people into the world, and how I’m dealing with those feelings as a genderqueer / trans* writer (with a tiny note about my next novel, which is indeed a genderqueer story rather than a girl story). Oh, and I open up the awkward conversation about numbers & money, how much I paid to self-publish my novel, and how much I get paid each time you buy a book (spoiler alert: not much).

Cover illustrated by Clara Bee Lavery.
Quarter-sized, 24 pages, 9,500+ words. Text-heavy forever!

$upport Telegram #29 here.
$upport Ragdoll House here.

Ziningly Yours,
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Ask Maranda: Am I fucking up my life?

Dave Cave is currently working on Operation AHAP, a small town zinester residency and arts grant. He’s a comedian, a writer, and a weirdo, and recently coined the term “mental illness as performance art.”

And what am I working on? An advice column! This entry is the first installment. I’ll be giving advice on creativity, mental health, being weird, making decisions, communication, etc; if you’d like advice from a weirdo/queerdo, introvert, fuck-up, recovering alcoholic, and encouragement enthusiast, please stay tuned for details, but do not send me questions until I give the go ahead. Yeah!

Dave Cave asked me if I think he’s fucking up his life. The short answer is, no, I do not. I think you’re waiting for it to get fucked up. The next disaster seems inevitable – maybe it is. But your self-awareness and enthusiasm for art, performance, and life, are sustaining you right now; also, you are wisely embracing your mental illness, and using it for inspiration rather than self-destruction. That takes guts! And generally speaking, you need to go through a lot of fucked-up-ed-ness to get there.

I love spending time at Dave Cave’s house (which is also lovingly referred to as Kate Middleton). Last time I was there, I actually wrote a list of all the things I like about being there. One reason we make such great friends is that we don’t need to keep each other entertained all the time. We can be hanging out in the same space but working on our own things. Sometimes we sit at the table and write together, other times we work from separate rooms. He makes me coffee and tea, and gives me Vitamin B. Last Winter, I showed up at Dave’s stressed as fuck because I hadn’t had any alone-time in way too long, and I was cranky. So, Dave cleared his desk for me, disconnected the internet, and went out to run errands, giving me the chance to have a date with myself. “Don’t come downstairs until you’re ready,” he said.

I sat at his desk for three hours, reading and writing. When I came downstairs, he had returned from running errands, cooked us a yummy dinner, and built a little fire in the backyard for us to eat at. When I sleep over, we wake up at different times and maintain different schedules; I still get up early, though, and we write a game plan for the day. Where do we need to go? What do we need to write? What are we gonna eat?

“I don’t know if I’m high, or if it’s just your contagious enthusiasm,” I said the last time we hung out. Dave is seriously one of my favourite friends to brainstorm ideas for creative projects with. We always have pens in our hands when we’re together, writing down lists, and quotes from our own conversations. He also tries to teach me how to zone out and not feel like I need to be a busy bee at every moment, and we encourage each other to cultivate healthier habits (or let them go if they’re just not working for us right now). Amber Dearest also wrote about him recently.

Dear Dave, no, you are not fucking up your life! You have a lot of privileges (white cis male, obvs, but also, you own a really nice house, you have a stable & reliable income, access to meaningful mental health treatment, the ability to cultivate healthier habits, and a ridiculous imagination, among others), and you’re learning and experimenting with how to use them wisely. That’s really rad! I think we’ll all be “fucking up” on some level our entire lives – just as we get our shit together in one part of lives, something else will come along to trip us up; that’s been my experience, anyway. There isn’t going to be a moment where everything comes together, everything is good (not for more than just a few minutes anyway). And that’s okay! Also, when you think you’re fucking up, do you really think you’re fucking up, or are you just afraid that other people (friends, family, “Real Writers,” etc.) might think you are?

Fuckedupingly Yours,
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Hello, Toronto!

I moved to Toronto last week, and the city has been treating me well. With lilacs, apple blossoms, columbines, and roses in bloom, and everybody riding their bikes, it seems like the perfect season to start over. I’ve never been in love with Toronto; for me, it was the city everybody ran away to when they “gave up” on their hometowns or other smaller, less exciting places. But now that I am here, and I’ve made the decision to make this place my home, I’m quickly realizing why writers, artists, and other interesting folk choose to live in Toronto. I’m so glad I’ve ended up here.

I’ve been walking everywhere, and drawing little maps from memory in my diary, marking intersections, cafés, and my friends’ homes, among other noteworthy places. I’ve been stealing lilacs and thrift store dresses, drinking grapefruit soda in the sunshine, and writing/ drawing/ daydreaming in each park I stumble into. I’ve been here for a week now, renting a summer sublet from a friend, and have created a lovely routine: I get outta bed around 8:30 – 9 in the morning, make coffee, write for a few hours, do some internetting, and then I go out for a walk and/or a friend-date, I read (currently reading Simone de Beauvoir, Twyla Tharp, and Eric Erlandson), and I go to bed looking forward to the next day. I’m feeling less fearful of getting lost, and I am feeling very inspired. I already feel more loved and supported after one week in Toronto than I ever did all those years in Guelph. I am convinced Guelph was a major cause of my chronic exhaustion and illness, because I’ve felt so much healthier after spending time in my hometown, and now in the city.

I have a cozy writing corner by the bay window in my bedroom, where I get to watch the trains go by, and listen to music blasting from car windows, including one car that stopped in front of my home in a traffic jam, and played one of my favourite Pearl Jam songs, In Hiding, which I took as a good sign. I watch cyclists go by and hope I can find (or fake) the confidence to take my new-ish road bike, named Pancake Breakfast, out into the city streets soon. There’s a bus stop at my doorstep, and a post office and photobooth on my block.

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{Click the images to make them bigger.} 1. Clara Bee Lavery; we drew pictures of each other the first day I woke up in Toronto. 2. This is the picture she drew of me. 3. Sticker graffiti, fight boredom in Lindsay, Ontario.

Dave Cave convinced me to join Twitter, so you can find me here: @marandatelegram. I’m thinking about character limits as art. I have some June projects I can’t wait to tell you about, and I’m working on my second novel. Also, I’ve got a lot of Summer travel plans. In July, I’ll be tabling at DC Zinefest, and then I’ll be flying out to Seattle to hang out with my Mend My Dress Press friends, and see the Kurt & Courtney tourist sites. From there, I’ll be road-tripping to Portland for the Portland Zine Symposium, staying for a while, and then flying home. At the end of August, I’ll be tabling at Grand Rapids Zinefest, and then I’ll be moving into a more permanent home here in Toronto.

I’ve been reading a lotta stuff on the internetz lately! Of note: Here’s the first review of my novel, Ragdoll House; Michelle Tea has a new queer young adult novel; “When you work regularly, inspiration strikes regularly”; How Not to Be a Dick to Someone with Depression; and Zelda Wasn’t “Crazy”: How What You Don’t Know About Fitzgerald Tells Us Something About ‘Crazy’ Women, Then and Now.

Readers & weirdos in Toronto, I wanna hang out with you!

Torontoingly Yours,
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The Other Side of Jealousy

Because I like writing about complicated and sometimes scary emotions, I’m gonna write some more about jealousy. I’ve been reading a lotta good stuff about jealousy lately, including When Good Things Happen to Other People on Rookie, Envy, that green-eyed devil by Sarah Rose, and Are Comparisons the Root of All Evil by Nubbly Twiglet. And I recommend, once again, Creativity & Jealousy: Stories & How to Deal, by me. However, this time, I’m not writing about feeling jealous. Instead, I’m gonna try to tell you what it feels like when other people are jealous of me.

I started feeling it the moment I began telling my friends that my zine anthology was being published. The feelings got stronger when the book was released, and stronger again when I told my friends that I had self-published my novel. For a while, nobody told me directly that they were jealous, but some of my friends started acting different.

Recently, a friend of mine told me they felt jealous of me, and after that, a few more friends admitted to the same thing. So we talked about it. While some of them did, in fact, feel resentful that I had published books before them, others realized that they weren’t ready to publish a book yet anyway; but because they wanted to, eventually, they felt like my books taking up space in the world left less room for theirs. That’s simply not true!

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At first, I didn’t know how to name my reaction. But then I figured it out: Defensive. I know that when I feel jealous of someone, it is because some part of me feels like I deserve what they have more than they do. So, that must mean that when somebody feels jealous of me, they must feel like they deserve what I have more than I do. And that makes me want to scream. It makes me want to remind you that I was not always a published writer, I was not always a good writer, I was often too depressed to write, I have written about a hundred unfinished stories for each completed one, I have lost track of how many times I’ve been hospitalized, I still feel violent and unsafe, I am not getting rich with my writing, I am still on disability for mental illness and chronic pain and it is taxpayers and the provincial government paying my bills, not me and not my words, I still choose to injure myself, I don’t think my stories are the most important stories ever ever ever but I do need to tell them to stay alive, I am still suffering with post-traumatic stress disorder and I don’t know how to talk about it except through fiction…

But I don’t want to defend my self. I don’t want my friends to feel jealous or resentful; I want them to feel proud. I want to remind you that I still feel jealous sometimes, too, and I know what it’s like, and holding my books in my hands is the most amazing thing ever but it hasn’t fixed my life, it hasn’t cured my depression, and I sure as hell have not gotten my shit together. I’ve spent the last two months living on my mom’s couch and giving my money to her shitty landlord! My wrists hurt too much to respond to all the lovely and life-saving letters I get in the mail!

Jealousy is inevitable, and even healthy, but it can also be poisonous. Like any emotion, if you do hard work with it, you can figure out what it’s trying to tell you, and then you can find ways to deal with it. You can choose how to interpret your feelings of jealousy, and how to respond to them. My jealousy often told me that I wanted to be visible, I wanted to be productive, I wanted other people to read my words, and I wanted to stay alive. My solutions were to write more, to write better, to talk about jealousy out loud, and to dare myself to do things that scare me. I started writing letters to people I thought were better writers than me, I learned more about writing, and I made a lot of really good, supportive friends.

While there might be a little bit of gloating to be had now that I am in what many would consider to be a very enviable position – Published Writer – it’s not my friends I wanna brag to; it’s every asshole who called me ugly in junior high, the kids who threw garbage at me and followed me home threatening to kill me in high school, every shitty ex-boyfriend who thought my zines were stupid and pointless, the cops who told me to smile when they took my mugshot, the teachers who told me to stop dressing in black if I didn’t want to be bullied, everybody who thought dropping out of high school was a bad decision, the ex who told me he’d lost all respect for me when I applied for disability, the boys with guitars who’d invite me to all their shows but never give a shit about my own art, the nurses on the psych ward who told me I was isolating and writing too much and I should come out and watch TV with everyone else… There are a lot of people I want to brag to, and none of them are my friends.

If I had published a book five years ago, it would’ve been a really terrible book, and I would feel tremendously embarrassed to read it today. But back then, I knew that I needed to publish books, and I felt completely lost and incapable. I felt like I was running out of time and needed to create and publish something immediately. I didn’t think I would live to be twenty-seven; I had a deadline to get all these novels outta me!

Writing does not need to be, and should not be, competitive. I write for survival, revenge, and friendship; not to make my friends feel bad, not to make you feel unworthy, not to take anything away from you. There is not a finite amount of words to be written, zines to be photocopied, books to be published.

I’ve been hesitant to write about the other side of jealousy because, like I said, I’ve become a Published Writer, so what else is there to whine about, right? But I need you to know that, unless you can use your jealousy to create more positivity in your own life, it’s not useful to me; it only alienates me further when I already feel pretty fucking disconnected from friends, artists, writers, punks, weirdos, etc. Let’s talk more about the things that scare us.

Publishingly Yours,
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My novel, chain bookstores, technology, class, etc.

So, when I first started to hear about eBooks, I didn’t really understand what they were or how they worked, and I’m still pretty foggy on the details; I don’t know the difference between a Kobo, a Kindle, a Tablet, an eReader, whatever, I don’t know how a book gets transferred to one of these devices, how to download a book, how much all this stuff costs, how much money goes to the writer (well, I know how much goes to this writer), where to find free downloads, etc. I have complicated feelings and fears.

My partner mostly reads downloaded books, which is how I started to learn a little more about them. When we read together, I’m able to see what a book looks like on a screen, and he shows me how to do things like turn the pages, highlight a sentence, change the size and font of the words, and so on. Although I still feel conflicted as to whether or not I’d ever wanna own a technological device to read my books on, he’s helped demystify some aspects of the whole thing for me. I was seriously afraid that an eBook would have a standard font, and other ugly, uncustomizeable things, and all the beauty of a paper book would be gone.

I’m writing about this because my new novel, Ragdoll House, is now available as an eBook, which you can purchase from AuthorHouse, Chapters/Indigo, and Barnes & Noble. The closest I’ve gotten to a non-paper-book-reading device is looking at decorative covers and cases for them, and seeing my partner read them. I have a Kindle app on my phone, but I’ve never used it, nor have I used dozens of other fancy things my phone does that I haven’t bothered to figure out yet.

When I was a teenager, I felt like the last person in my town to get a CD player. We grew up in poverty and, being twins, my sister and I were often given the same gifts, in matching or coordinating colours; we lived in a single-income household where our mom was obligated to buy two of everything. I grew up bitter & jealous of all the fancy things other kids had that we could not, and I still feel disconnected from even my closest friends when they tell me stories from their childhood that I simply cannot relate to. I’ve never even owned a DVD player. I don’t know what it’s like to live at or above the poverty line, to have the financial support of more than one parent, to have the opportunity to go to school, to have access to quality mental health care, or even to be able to buy a new pair of pants when the old ones have fallen apart and no longer fit.

My attempts to talk to anyone about those feelings have generally been met with absurd defensiveness on the part of folks who grew up with more money than me, so I don’t try to talk about it anymore.

I’ve always felt so far behind everyone else when it comes to trinkets and technology; despite feeling somehow ‘old’ when I discuss things like my inability to understand a lot of technological things, I know that my lack of access has more to do with class and gender than age.

I do have fantasies of getting rid of all my stuff, especially because I’ve been moving so often. It would be nice to clear out my bookshelves and keep all those words inside a tiny little screen instead. But, I’ve dealt with broken computers, and I have all kinds of floppy disks and CD’s filled with years’ worth of files of my short stories, my photos, etc., that I can no longer access due to changing technology that has rendered them useless. So, I have a fear of getting rid of all my books, downloading them instead, and then losing them when some other new gadget I can’t afford comes along. It’s a valid fear; it’s already happened so many times.

Also, I have chronic pain, and fiddling around with computers and cell phones and that kinda stuff fucking hurts. Writing hurts, sending a simple text hurts. My hand is numb as I type this, I have tingling pains in my fingers, and my back is sore. When I got the Netbook I’m currently writing on, I was hoping the touchpad would hurt me less than the mouse I was using with my old PC, which had self-destructed after eight years of use, but it was not to be. I’m afraid that turning the thousands & thousands of pages of all those eBooks I could be reading, will only increase this pain.

Being a zinester and a writer, I obviously have a tendency to prefer, and sometimes romanticize, things like paper, pens, books, snail mail, tangibility, etc., and those experiences and ideas have influenced my feelings about eBooks just as much as growing up in poverty has, or living in a society that tells me that the physical possessions I own give me value & worth has. I’ve been struggling with these things. For one, handwriting letters causes me extreme pain, but so does typing. Between September 2012 and September 2013, I will have moved at least six times, and lugging all those books around with me isn’t much fun. I travel a lot, and, while I have no need to actually have three-hundred books with me, my backpacks exacerbate my physical pain, and carrying one little device with a few books to choose from would be really nice (but it would also make one of the best parts of traveling – exploring bookstores in new-to-me cities and bringing home souveniers – pointless and unfun). I would miss the folded corners of pages, notes in the margins, and yes, getting my books signed by writers I love, and even signing my own books, which is something I’ve done more times than you’d think, and does bring me joy (and yeah, I know I just lost some punk cred saying that – I don’t care).

Of course, I’ve also been thinking about Chapters, a big chain bookstore that now carries my work. I used to spend a lot of time at Chapters, especially when I was a teenager and we didn’t have much access to a decent selection of books in our small hometown. The idea of somebody stumbling into my novel, either online as an eBook, or in-store on the shelves, delights me. Also, I want to make a living writing (just lost a little more punk cred again), and I do, in fact, get paid when somebody buys my book at Chapters – not as much as when you buy it directly from my publisher, or directly from me, but a little tiny bit nonetheless. There is also that part of me that wants all those assholes from my past (Hello, Lindsay!) to know that this weirdo high school dropout has their book in-stock at Chapters. However, I’m also not the biggest fan of chain stores (but not the biggest anarchist either – I am in an awkward in-between state, and that’s another story). When I think of Chapters, I think of bored, broke employees, and I think of all those stories of what they do with books that don’t sell within a certain timeframe: they rip off the covers and throw them in the dumpsters. That could be my book! Maybe it’ll be dumpstered by some cute punk, but, more likely, it’ll simply be destroyed.

I don’t know what my novel looks like on a screen, but maybe I will find out soon. I love holding my book in my hands, of course, but I also want it to be as accessible as possible.

Do you read eBooks? Paper books? Both? What are the benefits for you, personally, and what are the drawbacks? How do you feel about all this stuff?

Conflictingly Yours,
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