DBad's Dos and Don'ts when waiting to hear back from a publisher

As you know I've finally finished my book and it is now out in the big bad world of slush piles and email inboxes with its fate is resting in the hands of whoever happens to be working in the office that day and picks it up to read.

This is a scary and nerve wracking process. The agony of waiting, the creeping doubt and uncertainty that is inevitable when you put your heart on the line and leave it there for someone else to deem worthy.

Once it is out there is nothing much else you can do but wait... And wait...

Here's a short list of dos and don'ts I have come up with to help pass the time and ease the unsettling madness that is sure to creep in once you've sent your baby off to the judge, jury and executioner of your words.

DO send the publisher a quick email or message to let them know you've sent them something and that you look forward to hearing back.

DON'T send them endless emails and tweets and Facebook messages and Instagram pics and phone calls and carrier pigeons asking if they've read it yet and what did they think and don't they know they're missing out on the next JK Rowling and your entire future happiness depends on their saying yes and that you just can't cope with the waiting oh my god won't somebody read it!

DO give it some time. Some publishers can take up to six or even nine months to get back to you. If you don't hear back in a couple of weeks, or months, it's not because they hate you, it's because they have hundreds of manuscripts sent to them and who knows where yours is in the pile.

DON'T wear out your send/receive button and double check your spam folder every ten minutes. Not only will you disappoint yourself and send yourself mad, you will also end up buying penis enlargement tablets and sending Nigerian princes your bank details in a fog of frustrated tears and confusion.

DO find something else to do while waiting. Start another project, write blogs or articles that accompany your book and self promote them via social media, go for walks, take up a hobby, paint your house, fix your garden, take your mind off the wait.

DON'T pull out your hair, curl up into a ball, weep in the corner and eat an entire family sized bag of m&ms every day while you wait. Trust me. It's not good for your skin.

DO remember you're a valid person and your project is valid and that there are other options open to you other than getting published by a major publishing house. Remember JK Rowling was rejected umpteen times for the first Harry Potter book and now she owns a castle.

DON'T lose hope.

Now where did I hide that bag of m&ms...

Sorry, dear, you're not qualified!

Okay, so I have kind of misquoted there, but only by a word or two and for those hard-core Monty Python fans out there, I know you’ll know what I mean…

               

A mate of mine called me up not too long ago. He has been a colleague for many years, was even my boss for a few of them and, over the course of our working relationship, we have become friends. He has helped me out of a jam or two before and I him and we have formed a bond.

                But enough about that, this isn’t what this is about, it is about the phone call. He called me up and said, “Hey mate, I need some help. You’re a really good writer and I think you’re pretty funny too ( he went on and on with the compliments, but I don’t wanna bore you), and a friend and I have started up a website all about comedy, specifically Australian comedy, and we would love you to be a part of it. You have the skills as a writer, the contacts in the entertainment world and, well you’re just awesome (no, really, he said this heaps! *disclaimer, he probably didn’t say it as much as I like to remember).”

                Well needless to say I was flattered. Not only do I respect his opinion, I really love comedy. Like really. Some of my earliest memories are of watching old Billy Connelly videos with my dad, and my sisters and I screeching with laughter at the Goodies and Monty Python and all the best comedy from the 70s. When we got a little bit older my sister’s and I would re-enact scenes from the Old D-Generation show. We would quote the lines over and over.

 It wasn’t just comedy though. It was all performing. I loved theatre and musicals and live shows. Those people who know me well know I studied acting and writing for many years while I was a teenager and early adult. I did speech and drama and elocution, I performed improvisation and spoken word in Eisteddfods, I acted in plays (one of which was chosen to play in an international festival when I was only 16), I wrote plays (one of which ended up winning a prize in the Australian National Scriptwriting Competition in the early 90s) I told jokes, I did strange street theatre that nobody understood. It was my life.
                Those people who know me very, very well know why I quit. That’s another story for another time. It was one of the hardest things I have ever walked away from. But I did.

Over the years I put that loss of being on stage away and my passion for performing and entertaining was redirected into my other favourite thing, sex. Not only within the realms of escorting and sex work, where I would be able to don any mask to fit the personality of a client and get to show off my talents and personality and magnificent oral skills (oh as if you weren’t expecting a pun or too along the way), but also into public speaking and presenting too. I partook in panel discussions on writing porn and erotica; I co-hosted radio spots and, with a good friend, presented skill share workshops for women on sex and sexuality. (I am using past tense but all these things are still very much part of the work I do). In short, I was putting myself out there as much as possible but, instead of doing it under the guise of a character, I was doing it all as me.

So, back to the phone call. Of course I said yes. Not only was it awesome and flattering and exciting to be asked, it meant I would get to see some fantastic shows, hone my writing skills even more and build up more of my public profile because, let’s face it, when you’re a freelance writer without an agent, no one else is going to do it for you.

I have quite a few mates who are comedians. Some I know very well and would call them good friends, others more acquaintances who I have a drink with every so often and others are just people I know from around the traps of being a writer, enjoying live shows and/or they are a friend of a friend and I saw them once at a party.

I told a couple of them I had been given this gig and they were all excited for me. As well as eager to plug their next show and promise to buy me lots of beer if I gave them a good write up which I, of course, refused (Hey, you may be able to buy my sex… But my laughter is another matter). I was pumped. I was excited. I was ready to laugh… And then something happened.

I have a few idols. People I look up to and admire for one reason or another. I am very lucky to have met a few of them and even luckier to have met some who have since become friends of mine. One such Idol who I have met, although would not class as a friend, is a pretty famous Aussie comedian. Someone I grew up watching and enjoying. Someone whose lines I spent hours quoting with friends. Someone who had a permanent poster-spot on my bedroom wall. Someone who, when they started following me on Twitter and who I eventually met briefly one day, made me jump up and down in my chair and go “Squeeeeee” for a while. Someone who, with a few casual words thrown in my direction had me questioning everything about myself, my intentions, my skills and my talents.  Someone who almost made me give up.
Yay idol, right.

It all started with a ticket mix up at the Melbourne International Comedy festival. I went to get tickets for a show I was reviewing and the girl at the desk told me she was really sorry, but for some reason they hadn’t sent me an email about another show I’d been hoping to review and I had missed out on the tickets to it because it had already started an hour earlier. She was really apologetic but I understand that shit happens and it wasn’t anyone’s fault really. But the most disappointing aspect of it was it was the show of the above mentioned idol. Someone who I had wanted to see live since forever.

So I sent him a tweet. Basically I said something like “Hey, am reviewing shows for MICF and just found out that, cos of a mix up, I missed out on your show. Bummer!”

His reply was quick, simple and short. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t know you were a comedy specialist.”

Well, I’m not. That bit is true, but at first I didn’t think much of it and sent him a reply back saying something along the lines of sex and laughter being intertwined and hey, people are always telling me I’m funny… And not just funny looking…

He came back at me with a quote. A quote from Roosevelt about how critics are scum and whose only purpose is to point out faults and judge while someone else lays their heart and soul on the line. (I’m paraphrasing… Here’s the actual quote http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/7-it-is-not-the-critic-who-counts-not-the-man )And basically went on to tell me that I had no place to be judging others, that I come from a place of no experience and total risk and that, regardless of my years of experience presenting and writing and putting myself out there for everyone to judge and criticise (seriously, until you have come out openly and positively as a sex worker, you have NO idea what being judged by complete strangers is like) I had no place to do what I was doing because comedy is a craft unlike any other ever and should be above scrutiny and basically fuck you, Eva, you’re a fraud.

This got to me. This got into my head and into my confidence and started eating away. “Yeah, Eva,” I thought to myself. “Here’s someone who knows his shit, man. Here’s someone whose advice you take seriously. Here’s someone who thinks you’re a big fat phony. What the hell are you doing? Why did you even think you could do this? You’re not even funny. People probably laugh AT you rather than WITH you. Stop what you’re doing right now. Get your hand off it. Go back to fucking. You suck…”

It was horrible. I rarely suffer from self-doubt and it’s even rarer I let what other people think of me get inside my head, but this was different. This would be a bit like the porn star Belladonna (who is another of my idols and one I have had the amazing luck to have interviewed over the phone) telling me to close my legs and stop having sex because, quite frankly, I was shit at it.
It was a blow to my everything...  I really was ready to give up. I spoke to the guys at the website and told them my concerns and they told me not to worry about it. That they wouldn’t have offered me the part if they didn’t think I could do it, but still I worried.

And then the emails and messages came. Now I have mentioned earlier that I have quite a few friends who are in the comedy biz. At the time I didn’t know who or how many people had seen this exchange (Yes, it had all been done rather embarrassingly publicly on Twitter, I have since removed them from my timeline) but apparently word had got out among a few of them and they had felt compelled enough by it to contact me.

Every single one of them said pretty much the same thing. “Don’t listen to it, Eva. You’re really good at what you do. You write well. You ARE funny, and you have every right to be doing what you are doing, oh, and will you come and review my show I’ll buy you beer!”

They made me feel better. They really did. But it wasn’t until I had some of my first reviews posted on the website that I really started to believe it.  People were sharing them over the place, the comedians I was writing about enjoyed and reposted them and the public took my advice and saw the shows I’d written about and then thanked me for directing them to good stuff.

I have had a few weeks to reflect on all of this and get my head around it. Out of all the comedians I know and have since met in this amazing Melbourne festival, the only negative reaction I have had was from one person. One. No-one else. And that, to me, says more about them than it does me or my skills. I always try to look at things in a glass-half-full way, and this is no exception. It just took a little longer.

                A couple of things I will add, in response to the “coming from a place of no experience” comments and the “you’re not a comedy specialist” digs, are that yes. He is right. When it comes to writing comedy reviews I haven’t got much experience. But, like all people, in all things that they do, they have to start somewhere and, luckily for me, I have got quite a bit of writing and reviewing experience under my belt, albeit in another genre.

Also I AM funny. I write damn good stories and have a way of expressing myself on paper and in person that is amusing and sometimes even laugh-out-loud funny. Okay, I may not have the experience of putting myself out there like a comedian trying to make people laugh, but if you think I haven’t stood up in front of a mass of people and bared my raw soul for all to see (and judge and scrutinise and whisper harshly about) then you’re sorely mistaken. I have stood in front of crowds and read out my own erotic writing and experiences including a blow by blow (pardon the pun) description of fellatio and cunnilingus and once I even re-wrote a scene in 50 Shades Of Grey to involve a gay kiss between two rather prominent and uber-hetero male radio presenters that was then read out on a national prime time show.

As for having no credibility to be judging others I will say this. I have never, nor will I ever judge anyone who has put themselves out there in a position of vulnerability. I just won’t. It is soul damaging and mean and not who I am in the slightest. I think the terms “critic” and “review” sit uncomfortably in a lot of people’s head because (and this happens) it means people can put you down, tell you where you went wrong, and judge (like Roosevelt says) from the relative safety of the critics chair. I don’t and will never “review” like that.

If you have a read of the ones I have done for the festival (blatant self- promotion here’s a link to ALL my reviews http://whatsoncomedy.com/author/evas/ ) you will see not a single judgement of harshness. What you see is a description. An observation of what I saw and what the basic premise for the show was. My experience and past as a sex worker is perfect for this. Let me explain how.

One of the most common questions I get from people about sex work is “But what if they’re old and fat and ugly?? How do you possibly enjoy it then?”
The answer is simple (well simple for me, I understand not everyone is like this) Everyone, absolutely everyone has something redeeming and endearing about them. Everyone. And, as a good sex worker, it is my job to find it and I have to say, in all the years and all the men and all the sex, I’ve come across maybe three people I couldn’t find something nice about.

I look at these comedy gigs the same way. Even if the show is the equivalent of a fat sweaty old man there will be something I can write positively about it. (Hell I probably could have written Tracy Morgan a good review) Even if I don’t “get it” or find it funny I can do that. Why? Because humour is subjective. The audience watching is reacting, laughing, clapping, joining in… Who am I to say it’s shit just because I don’t find it funny. It’s not about me.

And that’s the thing really, isn’t it. It’s not about me. Nor is it about letting other people’s judgement and ideas of you stop you from being who you are and doing what you love. It’s just about living.

So love what you do and do what you love and life will always come up smelling peachy. Or at least, a super cute comedian you have a bit of a crush on will hug you close and tell you you’re pretty damn special.

(I would just like to add that as much as this person hates critics and thinks the art of reviewing is one left to dogs and their fleas... He has NO problem retweeting, reposting and linking to any and every review and commentary on his latest offerings... But hey, don't take it personally, Eva... It's really not about you... Honest... )

Norma-Lising Bigotry

You know those times when someone goes spouting off on a subject they know very little about and, as someone who DOES know a bit about it, you start to get cross that they're misusing information, twisting facts and not really giving out proper, correct information?

Yeah, I hate that too.

Then, imagine that person getting paid to spout these views to a mass of people who really don't know the truth from the lies and so take this person's drivel as truth because, well, they've been PAID to say it in a national newspaper so it MUST be true?

Yeah.

Yeah I really hate that too.

Dr Caroline Norma (a lecturer on Social Sciences at RMIT) has done just this with her poorly researched Op Ed piece in the Age on June 19 2012.

Dr Norma's Piece

Her condescending tone and disgust for the profession is apparent within her first sentence with the obvious use of quotation marks wrapped around the term Sex Worker. Like it's not really a real word. Just one the workers have made up for themselves to feel some semblance of self respect...

She then continues on with her "better than you" type of attitude throwing out "facts" about an industry she has no idea about, as if she were feeding breadcrumbs to pigeons...

Oh wait. She is. Little breadcrumbs of misinformation and bigotry to a bunch of people who really have no idea about the truth.

On the day she wrote her awful piece many sex workers both past and present, both male and female, stood up and said "Hang on,. This isn't right! Can we talk to you about this. Can we offer some real facts, real information, real firsthand actual knowledge..."

And Caroline went silent.

She was appealead to over twitter, over Facebook, over blogs. She was contacted via phone, via email, via calls to her place of work.

Nothing.

For example, Holly (@HollyInAlbury on Twitter) a sex worker from regional Victoria appealled to Caroline in her blog to leave the speaking about sex work to the people who know about sex work. I mean, we wouldn't let a plumber talk to us about heart surgery would we?

You Can Read Holly's Piece Here

Male sex worker, and well-known sex worker rights activist Christian Vega (@ChristianBVega on Twitter) appealed to her on social media and his blog, putting forward a notion that many people don't actually think about (Dr Norma being one of them) that sex workers are not ALL female and that generalisations are harmful and damaging and that stigmas and stereotypes are wrong and can really hurt the movement for acceptance and better laws and regulations.

Christian's Piece is here

Newcastle-based escort Luscious Lani (@LusciousLani on Twitter) has tried to not only talk to her over Twitter, email and phone, she has also extended an invitation to Dr Norma to come to her home. Visit a real sex worker. Talk to her and others about her piece and the ramifications it has to our industry, our jobs and, to be blatantly honest, our emotions (being told you're a down-trodded exploited woman can be quite confronting when you know you're not).

You can read Lani's invitation Here

Has Caroline RSVPd to this invitation?

No.

Has she acknowledged this outcry from Australian sex workers?

No

I too would like to offer myself to Carloine Norma as someone within the industry who spends a great deal of time talking to and talking about sex work and sex workers and who is quite happy and willing to explain some things to her that seem to need explaining.

Like her lack of understanding on the things that most of us Aussie sex workers do NOT have to deal with...Like pimps. Like exploitation. Like drugs. Like sexual abuse. Like danger. Like rape. Like every other bad thing she put through in her piece without acrtually speaking to a single person involved in the Australian Sex industry.

Has she seen that a hell of a lot of us are university graduates and can hold an intelligent conversation?

Does she realise many of us are in relationships and have children and families and great ones at that?

Does she realise that very few of us are drug addicts and do this as a last resort attempt at earning money?

Well, if she doesn't, she will soon because there are a lot of us and we are not happy. All you have to do is search Caroline Norma on Twitter and you will see the army of sex workers, clients and their supporters who have stood up to say "We will not allow your bigoted narrow-mindedness stop us. We will fight for what we believe in and we will prove you wrong."

If you'd like to join the fight for the rights of sex workers not to be exploited and misrepresented in the media by people who claim to be intelligent beings, please head over to Lani's Website (Yep click it it's a link) and look to the left at the "rants and ramblings" tab and add your voice along with many other sex worker supporters, whether they work in the industry, use the services, or just support us as workers in general...

Happy Hooking! - DB!

The Ups and Downs of Deliciously Bad

So, as many of you know, this year has been rather a journey on the ol' roller coaster of life for me. My husband, the beautiful man of the mountain bike, Jman, decided after much soul-searching and a few bouts of “I fucking hate everything cos it all sucks” to leave his job.

It's a job he really loved and a profession he is very, very (did I say very) good at. The world of bikes has been his whole life for as long as I've known him (have I mentioned before I was about 11 years old when I met him?) and so this decision was a huge step. Massive!

As a good wife and his best friend I have supported this decision 100%. I've seen what the stress has been doing to him. As a good wife and his best friend I have stressed with him, cried with him, panicked with him and together we decided that it really was the best thing.

Actually he's been wanting to do it for a couple of years now. To be able to spend more time at home with me and our girl, to be able to spend more time seeing our friends and living life and to spend more time on his bike. The whole reason he's been working so long in the same area is his love of mountain bikes. His passion for building them and making them work perfectly. His love of racing them top speed down a crazy hill. The satisfaction of creating a fantastic track for other riders to enjoy.
But instead he has been stuck in a workshop, surrounded by people who don't seem to know what they're doing, and getting caught up in store politics, customer relations and retail. Definitely not his forte.

Like I said, he's wanted to quit for years but because of me, my uni studies, my head down-bums up writing of my book and the crazy inconsistency of freelance writing gigs and even regular sex work, he stuck at it. He stuck at it until he couldn't take it any more and wondered if the stress would kill him.

This kills me inside. I know that if it wasn't for me and my lack of income he would be less stressed, less unhappy, and more content. Our relationship, our love, our togetherness does not suffer which is one small mercy, but our stress levels about money, rent, the future, are always there. It's hard.
I honestly thought I would have something a bit more regular by now. Another column like I did in People Mag, or something like that. I believed that my book would have been picked up and published (it really is very interesting and good) by now and that I would be a valuable contributor to our household finances. It hasn't happened.

There's still time, sure, but time is something I don't really have.

I have very few regrets in life, I think they (like grudges) are unnecessary and hindering, but one that has bubbled to the surface recently is the one where, before I even knew if it would happen or not, I walked away from an amazing opportunity.

I did it because, at the time, it was the right thing to do. I did it because I have standards, morals and boundaries and someone pushed them and spat on them and made it so that I could either throw out everything I had always believed about myself to maybe get ahead, or walk away. I chose the latter.

To me (and the people who knew what was happening) it was the only thing I could do. To everyone else it probably seemed stupid and unprofessional. I wasted people's time who were investing a lot in me and I threw away an opportunity most people (myself included) would do practically anything for. Practically... But not anything.

I don't know if that opportunity will ever arise again. I'm trying very hard to build bridges and prove that I am someone to invest in, but I understand previous behaviour shows otherwise. This is something I have to deal with and admit to myself. And it sucks. It really, really sucks.
But there is a light. It's not a very bright one, and it won't solve all our issues, but it's there, glowing in the middle of this long gloomy tunnel and showing me it's not all bad and that there should, one day, be a super-bright one at the end where hopefully all our dreams will come true... Or at least we won't have to dip into our house deposit savings to pay rent.

Until then I shall keep scribbling away at my blog and various other writing gigs, sending my manuscript to publishers and hoping that one day Aussie TV decides to spice up their morning couches and the other guys decide to give another chance...

Write and Wrong

This is an extended version of the original that went into People Magazine... You'll see a difference from the others I've posted, as this is going from a 500 word article like the others are, to a 900 word story.
I like the extended versions better. They're more detailed, and are more like this in my book.

Franco lived on the 10^th floor of an old apartment block in the city. Although I'd not been to see him before it was the home of many a single man and a place I knew well. It was one of those old fashioned looking buildings with gargoyles on the corners and musty old carpet in the lobby and one of those rickety old elevators that shake and creak and threaten to plummet to the bottom if you so much as sneeze when you're inside. Not that I had to worry about that on the night I went to visit Franco.

That night, which of course happened to be one of those horribly muggy summer nights, the lifts were broken and I had to walk up ten flights of stairs. No shit.

Now, I’m not the fittest person. I despise exercise even more than I hate coriander - and let me tell you that's saying something - but I am lucky and manage to keep in shape by the grace of good genes and of course lots of fucking. So, after walking up ten flights of stairs in ridiculous shoes, not to mention thick, unbreathable air, by the time I got to his floor, my lungs were ready to explode, my legs felt like jelly and I wanted to pass out.

I spent a good five minutes or so leaning up against the wall in the stairwell trying to stop my nose from running, and gasping and wheezing and cursing the cigarettes I'd smoked on the drive over. As soon as I could manage to breathe without pain and noise I rummaged around in my over-filled bag and pulled out my little mirror for a quick check.

Okay, so my face was bright red and I had little beads of sweat on my forehead and nose, but my eyeliner was intact, my lipstick was still on and I had good hair. Small mercies! Trying to rid myself of the rosy-cheeked glow, I fanned myself with my hands as I walked down the fluorescent lit hallway, counting off doors until I found his and knocked.

The door opened a crack and Franco peered out. “Ah yes,” he said in a thick accent. “You girl, yes?”

“Yes, hi,” I replied. “I'm Sophie.”

He was a tall, fat guy with messy Einstein-style hair, wearing nothing but a loosely tied, faded dressing gown from which tufts of grey hair poked through, and a pair of torn socks.

“Elevator is bitch, yes?” he asked me when we were inside. “You right?”

He brought me some water and sat at the kitchen table looking at me while I called the agency and signed in. Once that was all done I went and sat at the table with him. It was a cluttered mess of papers and magazines and I moved a pile aside so I could put my glass down.

“You right?” he asked me again, leaning forward and looking at me closely.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.” I thought about my marathon stair climb and wondered if I’d missed something in the mirror. An ugly sweat stain perhaps, or maybe a booger (Oh God, please don’t let it be a booger!)

“No, no.” He motioned with his hand. “Write. You write?”

“Oh!” I laughed, relieved. “Yes, I can write.”

“Good,” he said. “You write for me.”

He motioned to the stack of papers I'd pushed aside and on closer inspection I saw they were those contact magazines. You know, for mail-order-brides, partner swapping and that kind of thing.

He opened one of them to a photograph of a naked woman, her boobs thrust out, thighs spread wide, and a painful expression on her face that I think was supposed to be orgasmic. It said she was called Nora, lived in Germany, loved fucking and sucking, and wanted a big cocked, warrior-type lover to take care of her.

“Her,” he said, pointing at the picture. “I want you to write to her.” He pushed a pen and notepad towards me. “I want you to tell her this: ‘I want to fuck you. You come here, live in house and we will fuck. You look after me like good woman should and I will fuck you good. I am much better than warrior. I have big cock for you so come here.’”

“Seriously?” I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling.

He nodded. “Yes. You write that.”

I have to tell you it was one of the easiest, not to mention funniest, jobs I'd ever had. I spent the next 2 hours (at $300 a pop) writing out these ridiculous letters to mail-order-brides and international call girls, the irony of it completely lost on Franco.

To all of them he demanded they must come and live in his house and do all the things that a woman should do, crapping on and on about his big dick and how privileged they should feel because he was going to fuck them with it.

I think the funniest thing about the whole situation was that I’d caught a glimpse through his open dressing gown earlier and I knew the truth; there was really only one big dick in the room, and I have to admit I laughed about it... All ten flights down.