V. H. King's Ink

Before this year, it never occurred to me that I could submit my artwork to be part of an exhibit. I mean, I just realized that author fairs were a thing last October. I’ve been writing since forever, but I actually don’t know that much about…the rest of it. I never thought I would make a career out of writing. Plenty of people have told me to dream big, but as I told my friends a few weeks ago—

A school of fish can’t teach you how to be an ostrich.

I appreciate that my family thinks I have what it takes to be a screenwriter, a director, a bestseller. I’m not saying I don’t have what it takes; I just know there’s a lot that I don’t know. Even if those were my goals, I didn’t know where to start—and my family couldn’t really help me. We’ve got artistic leaves and branches in the family tree, but I don’t know of anyone who made that their full-time career.

A few high school acquaintances and college peers chose editing, teaching, and freelance work. I went in a different direction entirely—mostly because I didn’t think writing would pay the bills. If I had a stable income, I could write and paint as a hobby and be satisfied with that.

I’ll admit, I was intimidated by the publishing industry. I probably still am, but I also don’t trust it. Publishing houses would not value my BlackDisabledQueer voice, but I would. Self-publishing gave me the control and freedom to say exactly what I wanted, exactly what I meant, without having to worry about marketability and industry trends. The prevalence of AI clauses in contracts only increases my resistance. If publication is dependent on my work being fed to train artificial intelligence or language learning models, I’d rather not take whatever book deal or financial advance they’re offering.

Big publishing companies are just that: companies. They’re most concerned with profit and little else. Not the quality of what they produce, not the work-environment for their employees, not the authors whose voices they’ll supposedly amplify. And speaking of authors, the literary world is as racist and ableist as everything else. There was no space for me—either in popular consumption or in critical conversations.

From the beginning, my writing and art have been my home, my sanctuary, my haven. If nowhere else, I would love myself in poetry lines and messy paintings.

I’ve been told not to sell myself short, and while I am (still) deathly allergic to being perceived by others, I am growing into an author and artist in my own right. When I published LitMiH, I did it because I saw the same shit happening all over again. Those poems and art pieces helped me survive the first time around; maybe this time, they could help me and someone else.

Folks still tell me everything they think I could or should do, and I have a feeling that’s just part of life. There are plenty of writing residencies and artist programs out there, and I’ve looked into them over the years. My goal, once upon a time, was to work my way toward being good enough to get in. These days, I highly doubt those programs would be accessible for me even if I could get in.

Neither by accident nor through my own planning did I end up with the opportunity to share my writing and art with others. I don’t know how long it’ll last, and I don’t know who all will see it—but I keep coming back to one simple fact.

The first step is doing the work.

Write. Sketch. Revise.

Do all those things first.

Paint.

Ponder.

Publish?

Eventually, yes, but don’t rush it.

You’ll know when the time is right.

Sharing my work (still) feels fraught with uncertainty, but isn’t everything? It might be foolish of me to just trust that it will make it into the right hands one day. When my work finds a home outside of myself, it won’t be by accident either. It’ll be because I valued my voice enough to share it in ways that best honored my livelihood.

Algorithms aren’t my friends. Trends aren’t my tools.

The industry will always be indifferent, at best.

I’ll stick to being an ostrich, but I won’t have my head in the sand. I’ll be roosting in a tree, enjoying the breeze, and marveling at the world. I’ll be learning how to be me, and trusting this odd bird is exactly who I’m supposed to be.