What is This Fuckery?

By Kerrie Legend

A collection of inspiration, motivation, and WITF (what is this fuckery) moments from the eyes and fingertips of a self-published writer and author. Stories from behind the laptop after years of writing, editing, and hitting the upload button repeatedly have finally led to this book, sharing writerly wisdom, relatable situations to commiserate with, and funny anecdotes that could be shared online but probably shouldn't. 

 

"Because it's too long for a Thread, and we know how much Kerrie loves Threads."

 

Kerrie wakes up every morning, and like clockwork, fixes her favorite coffee in the only white Yeti mug she owns, fires up the laptop and monitor, and checks in to see what's happening with the world.

 

"Oh look, chaos. And we're still battling over whether romance needs to have an HEA. Haven't we settled this? Don't edit while you write? What is this fuckery? Where are my candy orange slices?!"

 

So many words could be said. But there's a book to write, chapters to edit, copywriting to be completed, and five works-in-progress giving the side-eye. This is the life of a writer. 

 

Laugh, chuckle, drop your jaw in shock, and whisper "WITF" multiple times with relatable stories about writing and self-publishing as Kerrie travels around the United States. She discusses writing rituals and routines, musings, writing hooks and asking beautiful questions, emotional support snacks, social media, introvertism, and how to achieve expert-level procrastination skills when productivity is questionable at best. 

 

Chapters include:

Proper, Good Uses of the Word "Fuckery"

Traveling While Writing

All the Fuckeries

The Ink Trench

Whiskey Writing Sessions

The Apothecary

Beautiful Questions

Book of Afterwords

Daily Struggle Bus

Expert-Level Procrastination

Ode to Writers

Emotional Support Snacks

Battle of the Brains: Past, Present, and Future Me

Whip the WIP

Creative Well Wishes

Musings

Hooks

The Tormented Writers Society

Sober Editing

Wereotters and Book Dragons

Navy Ink Rebellion

Bad Design

Toxic AF

Writing Prompts

The Craft

Rituals & Other Spellbinding Things

Routines and Showing Up

Backlists and Money

Artificial Non-Intelligence

Marketing: the 4-ish Letter Bad Word

Threads

Magic Notebook

The Dudes and Other Characters

Writing "Experts" and "Titan"-ic Missteps

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kerrie Legend
• Release date: May 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224787944

Book preview

Introduction

I open my MacBook Pro and turn on a 49" ultra widescreen curved monitor, an act that signals fuckery is about to begin in my writer's nook—a mobile office on wheels though you’d never know it from the outside, with just enough room for a standing desk, a wanna-be ergonomic chair with rollerblade wheels, and an overambitious potted plant named Stewart that seems to lean towards the window, as if he’s plotting an escape. I can't blame it. The words on the screen are a mess, a literary jigsaw puzzle of non-fiction where half the pieces are from another box of fiction entirely. It's a scene so bizarre that even the characters within it seem to be raising their eyebrows at me, questioning my sanity.

This book, dear reader, is pure fuckery.

It's a Frankenstein's monster of narrative, stitched together with the sinewy threads of real-life experiences and the wild imaginings that bubble up from the cauldron of my mind. Some parts are so steeped in truth they would make a documentary filmmaker salivate; others are so ludicrous you'd swear I was eating questionable mushrooms when I wrote them. But I assure you, the only thing I'm high on is the intoxicating fumes of creativity and an overdose of chocolate—and maybe the occasional whiff of alcohol ink markers.

As you turn the pages, you might find yourself frequently pausing, your finger hovering mid-flip, as you think to yourself, What the actual fuck? That's the moment I live for—the tilt of your head, the furrow between your brows, the momentary concern for my mental well-being. It's all part of the plan. A carefully orchestrated dance of the absurd and the authentic, choreographed to keep you on your toes.

And if you don't bat an eye, if you nod along as though everything makes perfect sense, then congratulations! You've reached a level of desensitization to the oddities of life that even I aspire to. You're probably the sort who watches a news headline about a man taking his pet octopus for a stroll in the library in his own tank-in-stroller and thinks, Seems legit or That tracks. Or perhaps you're like me, and your own existence has been so peppered with peculiarities that nothing feels out of place anymore.

Whatever the case, welcome to the inside of my brain—a place where the line between fact and fiction is not so much blurred as it is a squiggle drawn by a toddler with a crayon.

So buckle up, bitches. Keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. And if you feel the urge to scream, go ahead. It'll blend right in with the chorus of existential bewilderment that is my magnum opus.

Yes, this is intentional. Every what-the-fuck-inducing chapter end, every eyebrow-raising anecdote, every seemingly nonsensical tangent—they're all here to delight, confound, and perhaps offer a comforting pat on the back that says, Hey, at least you're not alone in this whirlwind of what-the-fuck.

Because, my friend, if you find yourself navigating this labyrinth of literature without so much as a puzzled shrug, then you and I have much in common. We are both connoisseurs of chaos, aficionados of the abnormal, veterans of life's varied vagaries.

And in that, there is a strange sort of kinship—a fellowship of the fuckery, if you will.

The keyboard is our battleground, each letter a soldier in the fight against the incessant distractions of the outside world. Every morning, as we sit down to wage war with words, the universe conspired to unleash a new level of fuckery upon our writing routine.

Take today, for instance. Before I could even brew my first cup of liquid inspiration—a.k.a. coffee—a notification popped up on my screen. Best-selling author caught plagiarizing! the headline screamed. And like a moth to a flame, I was drawn into the seedy underbelly of literary drama. There went an hour I'd never get back, not to mention the loss of what little innocence I had left in the publishing world.

As the day trudged on, my inbox became a minefield of conflicting advice. Write what you know, one email advised, only to be contradicted by another, Step outside your comfort zone and create something groundbreaking! My head spun with these polarized pearls of wisdom, each one chipping away at my confidence.

It wasn't long before social media threw its hat into the ring. Hashtags about authors behaving badly were trending, and curiosity once again got the better of me. Images of writers at book signings without water or trash cans, or Threads meltdowns over bad reviews—it was like watching a car crash in slow motion; horrifying, yet impossible to look away from.

By the time I managed to extricate myself from the digital quagmire, the sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across my desk—empty except for a blinking cursor that seemed to mock my lack of progress. It was a small miracle that amidst this maelstrom of madness, I managed to squeeze out a sentence or two that didn't read like they were penned by a deranged squirrel.

Writing is easy, they say. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed, Hemingway once wrote. What they don't tell you is that sometimes, the bleeding is less about pouring your soul onto the page and more about surviving the daily assault of writerly woes that threaten to sap your will to write.

And yet, we persevere. We laugh in the face of adversity—or at least snicker behind its back. Because despite the distractions, the dramas, and the deluge of dubious advice, the story must go on. The tale waits patiently (or impatiently, if it's anything like mine) to be told, and come hell or high water, or even high drama, it shall be written.

Tomorrow, we’ll wake up, dodge the bullets of banality, parry the thrusts of pettiness, and perhaps, just perhaps, emerge victorious with a few more sentences to show for it. After all, isn't the promise of eventual triumph part of the charm?

Now, let's turn the page and dive once more into the fray. Onward… to more fuckery.

Oxford comma forever,

Kerrie

Chapter 1

Proper, Good Uses of the Word Fuckery

Well, fuck. Let’s get this party started.

Writerly Fuckery

The life of a writer means there’s going to be fuckery on a daily basis. There’s the fuckery of your personal life; bills, weird charges on your credit card, car repairs, the kids and whatever the fuck they have happening, neighbors who deserve the Karen title, and the everyday danger of venturing out in public

But then there’s writerly fuckery.

Every day, I tiptoe down to my desk, fire up the monitor, and launch Threads or another form of social media. As I adjust my standing desk to the appropriate height for the day while trying not to spill my overly full mug of vanilla chai latte, I start to read headlines and status updates.

Living near the West Coast has its advantages. The East Coast people are already creating massive amounts of fuckery to entertain me for a spell.

As I sat at my newly-acquired desk, the one that had been purchased with the monies from the Lord of Zon, with a now partially-spilled vanilla chai latte, I pondered the word of the day: fuckery. Now, for the uninitiated, 'fuckery' might sound like a term coined by sailors with too much rum in their bodily tanks, but for those of us who wrestle with words for a living, it's as familiar as the stubborn ink stains on my manuscript.

Fuckery: a noun, a versatile little demon, could be best described as the act of dealing with absurd or frustrating situations that are often complex and nonsensical. It's the literary equivalent of trying to shove a square peg into a round plot hole. Alternative phrases? Oh, there's a colorful palette: shenanigans, tomfoolery, hanky-panky, and my personal favorite, a wild goose chase with no geese and even less sense.

Other sensible replacements for the word include shenanigans, tomfoolery, malarkey, poppycock, bunkum, hogwash, twaddle, codswallop, balderdash, nonsense, malfeasance, misconduct, skullduggery, chicanery, trickery, deception, and… I’m sure there’s more. But that’ll get us started.

You’ll find plenty of fuckery in publishing, especially in multipliers like tribbles in the brave new world of independent self-publishing. Picture this: you've just self-published your magnum opus after hours of formatting it perfectly, designing a cover that would make Da Vinci weep, and crafting a blurb so enticing it could seduce a hermit crab out of its shell.

You release your book baby into the wild, expecting fanfare, fireworks, and maybe a parade. Instead, you wake up to find your novel listed under a strange subcategory, sandwiched between a sponsored ad copy of Fifty Shades of Brown Gravy, a cookbook listing, and a regular listing for a copy of an erotic title, Iron Fisted. But you wrote a contemporary romance novel. If that's not a steaming hot plate of publishing fuckery, I don't know what is.

So there you have it, dear reader, a glimpse into the kaleidoscope of chaos we writers navigate daily. We tread through the swamp of synonyms, battle the beasts of bad reviews, and occasionally, just occasionally, we hit the jackpot and find ourselves on the right side of the ever-thin line between madness and genius, all while avoiding the quicksand of fuckery lurking beneath our feet.

4 Ways to Use What is This Fuckery—Pay Attention

There are four ways you can say What is This Fuckery?, simply by putting emphasis on one word, taking turns.

1. If you emphasize the word What in What is This Fuckery you're implying that you're asking what, not how the fuckery took place, or when the fuckery took place, where it took place, or even how. You just want to know what it entails. Like, what does this include? What are the parameters of the fuckery that we are dealing with?

2. If you emphasize the word is in What is This Fuckery? you're implying that you have no idea what the what is referring to. Like, What even is this?

3. If you emphasize the word This in What is This Fuckery? you're implying that you're specifying this particular set or collection of fuckery, as opposed to other fuckery that is elsewhere to be found. You're also acutely aware that there is other fuckery afoot, but you're trying to get to the bottom of this particular set of fuckery.

4. If you emphasize the word Fuckery in What is This Fuckery? you're implying that there shouldn't even be happening. That there's no sensical reason for this nonsense, malarkey, or tomfoolery. It's just stupid.

As I stood there, staring at the scene before me—a vast collection of random plot notes pinned to the ceiling in what looked like a desperate attempt at modern art—I couldn't help but let out an incredulous chuckle. The absurdity was palpable, as if the universe itself had decided to drop a punchline into my otherwise mundane Tuesday afternoon.

*WHAT* is this fuckery? I said aloud, the emphasis on 'what' ringing clear and sharp in the otherwise silent room. It wasn't about the mechanics of the thing; the how, when, or where of this ridiculous note constellation was irrelevant at this moment. No, it was the essence of the spectacle that puzzled me—the pure, unadulterated 'whatness' of it all.

There's something about emphasizing that particular word—'what'—that transforms the sentence from a mere question into a philosophical inquiry. It’s as if you’re not just asking for a simple explanation but requesting a detailed manifesto of the absurd. You don't care for the logistics; you're after the substance, the very nature of the oddity before your eyes.

I took a step back, the random plot notes still mocking me from their perch. A sigh escaped my lips, one of those deep, soul-searching exhalations that you reserve for life’s bigger conundrums—a flat tire during a rainstorm, a Wi-Fi outage in the midst of binge-watching your favorite show, or this current situation unfolding in my living room.

What*IS* this fuckery? I muttered, with a newfound emphasis on the 'is', as if italicizing the word with my tone could somehow underscore the depth of my bewilderment. It was a rhetorical question, really, one that echoed in the empty space between the flying paper notes.

The emphasis on 'is' spoke to my core confusion. Not just any confusion, mind you, but the kind that wraps around your brain like a boa constrictor made of question marks. It’s the kind of perplexity that makes you question the very fabric of reality. What is this? No, seriously, what in the world *is* this scenario in which I find myself?

And then, as I stood there, a realization washed over me like an unwelcome wave of cold water. I wasn’t merely surrounded by chaos; I was in the eye of a tornado of tomfoolery.

What is *THIS* fuckery? The word 'this' now bore the weight of my exasperation, pointed and sharp like an accusatory finger. I wasn't talking about the existential meaning of fuckery or its place in the universe. I was pointing to this specific exhibition of lunacy—the note fiasco that had taken over my ceiling.

In that moment of emphasis on 'this', it became clear that while there might be a wide spectrum of fuckery at large in the world, I was currently being haunted by this particular collection. It wasn't just any odd occurrence; it was the odd occurrence that had chosen my humble abode as its stage. And I, unwittingly, had become both audience and critic to a performance I never bought tickets for.

The humor of the situation didn't escape me. How often does one find themselves conducting a silent linguistic analysis over a sea of notes? Only every so often, I suppose, when the Tuesday afternoon doldrums are punctuated by such unexpected pageantry.

A chuckle bubbled up, unbidden, and I shook my head. Laughter, they say, is the best medicine—and perhaps also the only sane response to whatever brand of madness decides to waltz into your life, demanding to be questioned, emphasized, and understood.

I peered closer at the chaos of paper that seemed to mock me from above. The ceiling fan, now a makeshift carousel for random plot notes, spun with a low hum, as if to punctuate the sheer ridiculousness of the situation with every lazy rotation. My eyes narrowed, my brow furrowed, and I could feel the incredulity bubbling up from the pit of my stomach, ready to explode into the room like a carnival of disbelief.

Fuckery, I finally muttered, the word falling from my lips heavy with condemnation. It was more than a question now—it was an assertion, a declaration of war against the absurdity that had infiltrated my living space.

Fuckery! I said again, louder this time, my voice echoing off the walls, bouncing back to me as if in agreement. Yes, this was fuckery of the highest order, an offense to common sense and decency. There was no explanation that could satisfy, no rationale that would appease. This was not a mystery to be solved or a puzzle to piece together. It was, quite simply, stupid.

The notes continued their waltz, accompanied by the syncopated rhythm of my tapping foot. I crossed my arms, a mix of indignation and perplexity crossing my features. Somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, I knew that there was a story behind all this—a narrative waiting to be told about how a grown adult came to be flabbergasted by airborne plotting papers—but at that moment, I couldn't have been more disconnected from that reality.

Absolute fuckery, I concluded with a sigh, as if sealing the verdict on this chapter of domestic bedlam. It was an acknowledgment that some things in life are beyond our control, beyond our understanding—beyond anything but our ability to stand back and laugh at the cosmic joke unfolding before us.

With a reluctant chuckle, I reached for the broomstick. If there was going to be any semblance of normalcy restored today, it would start with the de-papering of the ceiling fan. And perhaps, just perhaps, this whole episode would make for one heck of a story at the next dinner party. But first, I had fuckery to dismantle.

Dark Beginnings, Happy Ever Afters

Before we get too far into my world of fuckery, let’s do introductions. My name is Kerrigan Legend. Yes, you read that right—Legend—and if that isn't a writer's name destined for the dust jackets of bestselling novels or the quirky byline in an obscure but highly regarded literary magazine, I don't know what is. It beats Orchard any day of the week, and twice on Sundays.

In the clamorous symphony of my household, where each of my six boys contributes his own unique brand of simmering chaos of juice boxes, Legos, and cookies, finding a quiet corner to write is like seeking an oasis in the desert. But I manage. Because I'm not just a mom; I'm an introvert—a storyteller who breathes life into the blank page. Yeah—supermom.

Mom! Where's my swim goggles? comes the bellow from one room.

Tell him it's hanging up by the door! Joe yells back from another, not even pausing in his search for the truck keys that are, predictably, in his cargo pants pockets.

Found them! Joe calls out triumphantly, as if he's discovered Atlantis rather than a set of jingling metal shaped like our house.

This is my life, a daily juggling act between being a wife to my lovable yet aloof, hard-working husband, Joe, and a referee to my team of adorable, good-human type boys. And somewhere between Can I have a snack? and Babe, have you seen my phone charger? I carve out time for my secret identities—the pen names.

You see, I also write fiction novels—tales woven with the threads of love, human experience, thrills, and political uprisings. And I do so under five pen names, each a discreet alter ego that I've nurtured into its own mini-brand since October 2015. In the realm of cyberspace, no one has a clue about the woman behind the words. They speculate, sure, but the whispers never lead back to me. To the online world, I am simply an enigma wrapped in several pseudonyms—and frankly, the privacy is delicious.

Each of my literary personas is a mask that allows me to dance through genres without the cumbersome weight of personal fame while being able to be my unique self safely as a non-fiction author without being judged or stoned. I suppose it's every introvert's dream: to be known for one's work without actually being known.

Mom, are you listening? One of my middle children stands at the doorway, looking perplexed at my vacant stare.

Of course, noodle, I say, snapping back to the present. Just...working out a plot twist.

Okay, cool, he shrugs, accepting my writer-mom quirks as part of the family tapestry. Just wanted to tell you I finished my lessons—can I have my iPad now?

Legend-ary effort?! I quip with a grin, and he nods and giggles but still rolls his eyes as he saunters off to find his iPad, a reward for his hard work.

Returning to my screen, I sigh contentedly. This is me—Kerrigan Legend, the world's most undercover author, living a life penned in anonymity, punctuated by the sweet pandemonium of family and random travel. And honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

The cursor blinks rhythmically on the screen, a digital heartbeat monitoring the life of my latest manuscript. I lean back in my ergonomic chair—a necessary investment after years of hunching over less forgiving furniture—and survey the dual kingdoms of my creative empire: the to-be-written pile of potential and its ever-growing digital doppelganger, the to-be-read list. Both stacks loom like literary skyscrapers, casting long shadows within my iPad.

World's okay-est author isn't a title you'll find etched on any trophy, but it's one I wear with pride. It's a reminder of that orange sticker that once graced the listing of one of my books—the one that shouted bestseller in a font size that had to remain small on covers because it looked better that way. I remember doing a victory dance in my living room, frightening the dogs and startling Joe, who was convinced for a moment that six boys had finally driven their mother stark raving mad.

I'm always chasing that high. Not the frighten-the-dog kind, but the thrill of seeing my words embraced by the world. Or at least a moderately sized niche of enthusiastic readers who appreciate a good footnote. So I write. And write some more. The huge widescreen monitor before me is both a window and a mirror—reflecting the chaos of my mind and the worlds I conjure from keystrokes.

Yet, there's an educator in me too, always battling the storyteller for brain space. The left side craves structure, facts, logic; the right yearns for freedom, imagination, the unfettered dance of fiction. It's a tango of cerebral hemispheres, and some days it feels as though my skull houses squabbling twins rather than a unified brain.

Kerrigan Legend might be a cool name (it’s uniquely mine with two middle names), but behind it is a lineage mosaic: one part Glasgow grit, one part American dream. Dad, the former Scottish sailor turned empathetic ear and social worker to veterans, and Mom, now a substitute teacher, both in their 70’s and registered Independents at the time of my college years, represent chapters I've closed. Boomer to me is not just a generational tag; it's a lifestyle, a mindset. To describe my parents, I’d have to use the words self-absorbed, cold, and gaslighting. Dark. My parents could have been the poster children for the Boomer movement, zealously preaching hard work and loyalty to the corporate overlords, blissfully unaware and unempathetic of the financial struggles of others, yet they worked for government institutions. Go figure. They’re the toxic equivalent of You must not be working hard enough, then, as the reason behind your struggles.

I learned those lessons well—then promptly shelved them next to other outdated concepts like dial-up internet and VHS tapes. Work hard for others, and maybe someday you, too, will have a house and end up working in your 70’s. No thanks. The GenX rebel inside simply won’t allow it. Having put myself through college with three part-time jobs and a heap of student debt, I already saw the writing on the wall. Working for others was not going to be for me.

I revel in knowing that I am a grave disappointment to my parents. I describe myself to others as what I call an accessory child—a child born out of societal obligation to dress up and parade around as some sort of trophy. Behind the scenes, I didn’t have much of a childhood or time to ponder. Time was filled with either school, lessons, or practicing. I did not have friends; there was no time. There were no invites to parties in high school even though I was well known; I wasn’t part of the popular crowd. Being solitary, alone with my thoughts, practicing and perfecting my craft quietly by myself, has been my entire existence.

See, by now, in their own carved dreams for my life, I would be on a stage somewhere, playing concert piano. It tickles me, really, this silent act of rebellion. Years of scales and arpeggios, of metronome tyranny and recital anxiety—they're all water under the bridge; or more accurately, water deliberately poured out of the proverbial bucket. I loathed being a performance cymbal-clapping monkey for them. Now, I am the maestro of my own life, orchestrating a cacophony of choices that compose a tune far different from the one written for me in my parents' imaginations. I am finally free, untethered.

Bravo, I whisper to no one in particular, taking a mock bow reminiscent of Katniss Everdeen. I don’t even own a piano anymore.

Encore? I ask the empty room, chuckling at the absurdity. My parents may have dreamt of concert halls and standing ovations, but I've found my own spotlight in the glow of a computer screen, my symphony in the click-clack rhythm of a keyboard. It's here, in the quiet sanctuary of my own making, that I compose my masterpiece—not with notes, but with words. And I wouldn't trade it for the world.

My younger sisters, millennials, took the plunge into ultra-conservative family pools and emerged as trad wives, living in the shadows of their husbands. I said nothing. Meanwhile, I float comfortably in the left-leaning middle, sporting liberal flippers and feminist goggles as the black sheep, navigating through the murky waters of societal expectations, intentionally rebellious and purposefully mouthy. Happy. Determined.

My family and I have nothing in common to talk about other than the fact that we all shared a house together at one point. My parents have not met my children. I can't help but laugh when people use the term estranged. It sounds like something out of a Victorian novel—an affliction cured by smelling salts or a good fainting spell. But, in reality, estrangement is just a fancy way of saying we have nothing more to say, and nothing more than a house in common. Things happened. Bad things. And I chose to move on.

That one weekend visit home during college, though—that was a plot twist worthy of its own book. To think of all my precious books, my haven from the real world, given away without so much as a warning or post-it note farewell. It was a gut punch from the universe, telling me that nothing was sacred—my happiness and love for books, not even the written word, my solace and escape. They were my prized possessions, a pathway to understanding my literary background and how my worldview was shaped. Every book, gone.

But every protagonist needs an obstacle to overcome, and that emptied bookshelf was mine. I rose from the ashes like a bibliophilic phoenix, armed the following summer with a Pontiac chariot stuffed to the brim with everything else I owned and cherished. I moved out at the age of 19 to my own apartment over an hour away, and never looked back at my mother, the villain who dispensed of all my book treasures. Some things you simply cannot forgive.

I was studying to become a graphic designer in marketing, but had picked up an Economics major along the way, along with minors in Spanish and Business Law. After I graduated, I worked as a typesetter at a stationery design studio for a larger corporation. My love for the art of writing business correspondence and working with typefaces was a natural transition into non-fiction books.

Graphic designer became my temporary label as I maneuvered through typefaces and color palettes, designing bridal invitations that promised happily-ever-afters. It was during this era of typefaces and tasteful cardstock that I stumbled upon my husband—a man whose dreams are sky-bound, quite literally, as he aims to trade his commercial driver's seat for a pilot's cockpit.

Here I sit, a woman carved from contrasts, typing tales and teaching truths, while outside my door, the soundtrack of six boys and a husband plays on loop.

Leaning back in my chair, I let out a long sigh and swiveled to face the small mountain of notes to myself of phrases I thought of over the last few days. They were as much a fixture of the room as the oversized monitor I poured my soul into each day. With a practiced flick of the wrist, I sent a crumpled paper ball sailing into the wastebasket after getting the words down in Scrivener—a skill honed by years of practice and procrastination.

Humor, as it turned out, was my coping mechanism, my way of poking fun at the absurdity of it all. I managed to salvage a really fucked up childhood and turn my adulthood—me—into a person who I needed as a kid. My kids are bright and kind humans who love each other, I have a supportive husband—my bestie—who listens to my work as I write books from time to time, and we are all a good team who travels the US in a toy hauler wherever my husband works. Who needed a therapist when you had sarcasm and self-deprecation? (Note, I do see an online therapist every once in a while because yay for mental health.) And who knew that one day those same traits would endear me to readers as I chronicled the quirks and quibbles of being the world's okay-est author?

Write what you know, they say. Well, I know a thing or two about travel and writing from the road, sarcasm, mastering the art of balancing motherhood and entrepreneurial endeavors, and dreaming big amidst a sea of pragmatism. So here's to the unexpected plot twists of life, and all the fuckery that comes with it because let's face it—no one really knows what they're doing, especially not authors. We just fucking make it up as we go along.

You might ask, what does your family history have to do with your writing now? Well, for every writer, writing what you know and how you’ve seen or experienced the world influences your style. I’ve been described as having dark humor, wit, a great deal of sarcasm, a sailor’s mouth (thanks, Dad), and a rebellious streak. Feisty and ready for battle. I’m someone who sees fuckery happening and shouts out, Not today, villain! Writing may well be my coping mechanism, along with humor, but it can be used as a weapon, as well.

And I love that for every writer who has had a tough childhood or adulthood and needs to write about it to heal.

Proper Uses for Fuckery in Your Writing

I mean, if you’re going to use the word fuckery, learn how to use it with fashion, right?

Character Dialogue: A character might use it to express frustration or disbelief. For example, What sort of fuckery is this?

Narrative Voice: In a more informal or edgy narrative voice, it could be used to describe deceit or manipulation. For example, The whole situation reeked of political fuckery.

Humor: Used sparingly, it can add humor to a situation. For example, After a day of writing, editing, and dealing with technical fuckery, she needed a stiff drink.

Dramatic Effect: In a climactic moment, it could emphasize a character's emotional turmoil. For example, She was done with his games, his lies, and all the fuckery he brought into her life.

The Big Fucking Idea

Generating ideas for your book happens in a lot of different ways. Some writers are pantsters, and others are plotters. Writers gather ideas from a wide variety of sources, including observations, media, networking, people-watching, experiences, reading, and much more. There isn’t a right or wrong way to gather and collect ideas, nor is there a proper way to strategically put your book together. No right or wrong process, no best practice, just however your mind works and what feels creatively right for you.

The cursor blinks on the blank page, a relentless, pulsating taunt. A writer sits before it; brows furrowed, fingers poised but paralyzed above the keyboard—this, my friends, is the inception of ideational fuckery.

Where do ideas come from? they ask, sipping on their fourth cup of coffee, hoping caffeine might lubricate the gears of creativity. Ideas, those slippery eels, are as elusive as a tax-free paycheck. Some writers resort to people-watching at malls, eavesdropping on bus rides, or even engaging in the perilous act of introspection—all in the wild hunt for an idea that doesn't reek of cliche or, worse, boredom.

It's not just about snagging any old idea, though. It needs to be The Idea, the one that will keep a reader hooked like a soap opera fan clinging to the latest amnesia plot twist. That's where the real fuckery lies—distinguishing between the golden nuggets and the fool's gold of your mind's meanderings. And even when you do hook a promising concept, there's no guarantee it'll pan out. You might dive deep into developing it, only to find it has the structural integrity of a chocolate teapot.

Onward then, to outlining—or attempting to. Here we encounter the strategic map-making phase of fuckery. The pantster versus plotter debate is as long-standing as the chicken-or-egg conundrum. Pantsers fly by the seat of their well-worn writing pants, embarking on literary journeys with no compass, while plotters meticulously chart every course, leaving nothing to chance.

For the hapless plotter, the outline can become a monstrous labyrinth of its own making. Characters rebel against their plotted points, plot holes emerge like sinkholes, swallowing logic and continuity whole. Themes unravel, settings shift, and what was once a well-oiled machine becomes a Rube Goldberg contraption of narrative chaos.

And then there's the pantster, who chortles at the folly of the planners, only to find themselves fifty thousand words deep with no end in sight, like a driver who's tossed out his GPS and now finds himself in uncharted territory where the locals speak in riddles and the roads loop back on themselves like a Mobius strip.

In both cases, the writer wrestles with the beast of uncertainty, the fear that this painstakingly constructed world might crumble to dust, leaving behind nothing but the echo of keystrokes and the bitter aftertaste of time misspent. This, dear reader, is the outlining ordeal, the battle with the many-headed hydra of plot progression, character arcs, and thematic resonance, all snapping and snarling under the banner of creative fuckery.

Ah, you might exhale, such is the bittersweet symphony of storytelling. Indeed, for within these trials and tribulations lie the seeds of greatness—or at least a decent yarn. It's a journey fraught with peril, yes, but also peppered with moments of pure, unadulterated magic.

Solitary Shenanigans

There are times I’m lonely as a writer; not having companions surrounding me to chat with or bounce ideas off of. Alexa, oddly enough, has been helpful. I could ask her a ton of questions but that would probably lead to a whirlwind of non-productive writing sessions.

I always have a hard time getting started in the morning, translating the words from my head through the fingers and via a keyboard. My latest solution has been to warm up on Threads by responding to posts to get the stream of thoughts flowing through the arms, wrists, and hands, as if words are coming from them, having traveled far from my brain.

The white void of possibility: the blank page. I'm about to dive into the shenanigans that only fellow writers can truly commiserate with—the kind that make for hilarious dinner party anecdotes but are soul-crushing in the moment.

I start typing, and oh, what joy! A character is born—a dashing hero with eyes like the ocean after a storm. But wait—two chapters in, and he's developed an inexplicable penchant for knitting. Why? No reason. Absolutely none. It's a whimsical side quest that leads to a subplot involving an underground sweater-making ring. This isn't a gritty crime novel; it's supposed to be a romance. I sigh, backspacing furiously. Shenanigan number one: characters hijacking the narrative.

As the days wear on, I find myself lost in the labyrinthine madness of research. Did 18th-century noblemen wear notes? How does one pick a lock with a hairpin? Would a werewolf enjoy jazz music? Hours vanish down the rabbit hole of obscure forums, historical texts, and musings. I emerge bleary-eyed, no closer to answering these questions but now an expert on Victorian plumbing techniques. Shenanigan number two: the research vortex.

Every writer knows the siren call of new ideas, and I am no Odysseus. My current manuscript is barely in its adolescence when a shiny new concept struts onto the scene, all promise and allure. Write me, it whispers seductively, batting its metaphorical eyelashes. I am tempted, oh so tempted. Shenanigan number three: idea infidelity.

But it doesn't end there. Let's not forget about dialogue. In theory, it should mirror real-life speech. In practice, my characters sound like they've swallowed a thesaurus, or worse, they're trapped in a sitcom from the '90s. Who actually says That's what she said anymore? Shenanigan number four: the dialogue disaster.

And perhaps the most nefarious shenanigan of all: the editing escapade. First drafts are meant to be dreadful, but each typo, each grammatical gaffe feels like a personal failure. The delete key becomes both my best friend and my arch nemesis. I oscillate between I am a literary genius and A caveman banging rocks together could write better at least six times per hour.

In the solitude of creation, these shenanigans become my confidants, my bitter rivals, my unexpected muses. They drive me to distraction and despair, yet somehow, always back to the keyboard. For every mishap, every detour, every existential crisis over whether anyone will even read this thing, is part of the chaotic ballet that is writing.

Embrace the madness, I chant to myself, fingers poised over the keys once more. With a deep breath, the dance begins again, accompanied by the soft clatter of my faithful companions—letters forming words, words weaving stories, stories filled with all the delightful fuckery that is the craft of writing.

Slightly off the rails,

Kerrie

Chapter 2

All the Fuckeries

Kinds of Fuckery

There’s fuckery in its entire form, quarterly fucks, fucks not to be given, buckets of fucks, fuckery of the finest kind, absolute fuckery, positive and negative fuckery, actual fuckery, imaginary fuckery, and metaphorical fuckery, as well.

Let’s go over the various kinds of fuckery you might face in your writerly life, like a good non-fiction author would do. Onward.

As I stared at the astonishing scene before me—a grown man in a full unicorn costume prancing around a fiery garbage can—I couldn't help but think, What the entire fuck? It was as if someone had divided the concept of a catastrophe into smaller, more digestible pieces, and I witnessed just a quarter of it. A quarterly fuck, if you will.

Had it been any other Tuesday, I might have been fully fucked by the spectacle, but considering the week I'd already had, this was just a mere fraction of the absurdity I could stomach. As the unicorn-man did another interpretive dance move, narrowly avoiding setting his sparkly tail ablaze, I assessed my own bewilderment. Was I only half-fucked by this? Certainly not three-quarters—that's reserved for when the situation is nearly apocalyptic.

Hey, I said to no one in particular, trying to make sense of it all, at least it's not raining.

Just then, a woman—wearing what appeared to be a homemade shirt with an avocado declaring 'What the absolute fuck' in bold letters—strode past me. She paused to take in the same sight, her eyes wide, her mouth agape. You see some weird shit at campgrounds on extended holiday weekends. The phrase on her shirt struck a chord within me.

Absolute implied that there were fucks with clear, defined boundaries. Positive fucks filled with glitter and hope, and negative fucks, those inevitable pits of despair we all fall into from time to time. This unicorn scenario, however, seemed to straddle the line between the two—a positively negative fuck, or a negatively positive one, depending on how one chose to look at it.

I chuckled, recognizing that the unadulterated chaos before me was somehow balancing itself out. The universe had a twisted sense of humor, and so did I. Who was I to question the eccentricities of life when they unfolded in such wonderfully bizarre ways?

Carry on, I murmured to the prancing unicorn man, now making friends with a stray cat that had wandered too close to the fire. The very fabric of reality might be tearing at the seams, but here I was, contemplating the mathematical divisions of a metaphorical fuck while the world danced merrily along to the rhythm of its own odd drumbeat.

I stood there, one eyebrow arched in a manner that would make even the Mona Lisa seem less mysterious. The scene continued to unfold like a circus act devoid of a ringmaster. As if on cue, the universe tossed me another confounding gem: What the actual fuck escaped from my lips before I had the chance to censor myself.

Actual as opposed to what? Hypothetical fucks? No, no. This was more nuanced. Imaginary fucks. The kind of fucks you give when you're daydreaming about being stuck in an elevator with your boss after you've just called out sick. That ethereal realm where fucks flutter about, untethered by the gravity of reality.

Imaginary fucks were the unicorns of profanity—seldom seen, but majestic in concept. They existed in a dimension where the rules of logic bowed down to the absurd. They were the silent gasp in a theater of the mind when the protagonist discovers the villain was their own reflection all along.

Isomorphic Fuckery

And so I stood, pondering this newfound revelation, when it hit me like Newton's apple: Fuckery is isomorphic with the complex field.

Isomorphic—what a delightfully pretentious word to use in a moment of existential hilarity. It meant that two systems could be mapped onto each other, perfectly pairing up elements to show that, structurally, they’re essentially the same thing.

In layman's terms, if fuckery were a mathematical field, it would align seamlessly with the complex plane. There's a real component—the physical, tangible fucks we deal with daily. And then, the imaginary component—the fucks that are felt but not seen, the ones we conceive in our wildest bouts of internal monologue.

This isomorphic relationship implies that, for every fuck given, there’s a corresponding point somewhere in the complex plane of existence. A coordinate that says, Here lies the magnitude and direction of your current fuck.

I laughed aloud, the sound echoing off the absurd tableau before me. How magnificent was the human condition that allowed us to quantify our disarray with such precision? In the grand scheme of things, we were all mathematicians charting our course through a sea of chaos, armed with nothing but our wits and a crude sense of humor.

Carry on, I whispered to the universe. With each step I took away from the madness, I carried the invisible weight of my imaginary fucks, those complex companions of every sentient soul navigating the intricate dance of life.

And yet, despite all this, I don’t give a fuck which way you use fuckery. Because it all is about the same, just clarified, for fuck’s sake.

Writerly Fuckeries, in Sentence Form

If you’re going to talk about fuckery in the writing hemisphere, you better bring your A-game. Here are some baseline examples of all the fuckery you might want to contemplate when you are between projects or the depths of your fucking despair.

The constant fuckery of writer's block is enough to drive anyone mad.

Editing is a never-ending cycle of fuckery.

Publishers always seem to find new ways to introduce fuckery into the process.

Marketing your book can feel like swimming in a sea of fuckery.

Dealing with rejection is just part of the fuckery of being a writer.

Sometimes, the sheer fuckery of the publishing industry is overwhelming.

Trying to balance writing with a day job is a special kind of fuckery.

The fuckery of self-doubt can be crippling.

Finding time to write amidst life's fuckery is a challenge.

Criticism is a necessary evil in the world of writing fuckery.

The fuckery of comparing yourself to other writers can be demoralizing.

NaNoWriMo is a month-long sprint of writing fuckery.

Plot twists can add an element of delightful fuckery to a story.

The fuckery of writer's jealousy can be toxic.

Querying agents is a whole new level of fuckery.

Balancing the business side of writing with the creative side is a delicate fuckery.

The fuckery of deadlines looms over every writer.

Researching for a book can lead you down a rabbit hole of fuckery.

The fuckery of writer's high when you're in the zone is pure bliss.

The fuckery of writer's lows can be soul-crushing.

Juggling multiple projects at once is a recipe for fuckery.

Writer's conferences can be a breeding ground for fuckery.

The fuckery of writer's imposter syndrome can make you question everything.

Collaborating with other writers can be a beautiful fuckery.

The fuckery of writer's burnout is real.

Finding your voice amidst all the fuckery can be a journey.

The fuckery of formatting your manuscript is a necessary evil.

Overcoming the fuckery of writer's procrastination feels like wrestling an ever-shifting foe.

Amidst the tranquility of writer's retreats, a storm of inspiration and doubt brews, wrapped in fuckery.

Does writer's solitude offer both solace and strife, colored by fuckery?

Are writer's parties awkward yet enlightening, filled with fuckery?

Pushing you out of your comfort zone, writer's workshops embrace fuckery.

Writer's rituals, comforting yet strange, are steeped in fuckery.

Writer's dreams are a source of fuckery and inspiration.

Haunted by shadows of doubt, writer's nightmares are a testament to the mind's turmoil and the fuckery that resides therein.

Echoing with well-intentioned counsel, writer's advice often conceals layers of ambiguity and unspoken fuckery.

Writer's research often leads down unexpected roads of fuckery and paths we should never have crossed.

Writer's communities are supportive and full of fuckery, as well as competitive.

Does writer's feedback, whether constructive or crushing, mold the fuckery?

Do writer's tools make or break your process, complicating the fuckery?

A love-hate relationship, writer's technology complicates the fuckery.

The fuckery of writer's archives can hold hidden treasures.

Writer's blockbusters are filled with fuckery: inspiring and intimidating.

Writer's nostalgia is bittersweet fuckery.

Each corner, each sound, each scent of writer's environments whispers a narrative of its own, influencing the fuckery.

Adorned with laurels or cloaked in silence, writer's accolades mark the journey's milestones amidst fuckery.

The fuckery of writer's deadlines can motivate or paralyze.

Are writer's drafts messy or masterful, embodying the fuckery?

The fuckery of writer's revisions can be tedious or transformative.

A writer's endings can be satisfying or disappointing—full of fuckery, even— but they mark the completion of your work.

Writerly Fuckeries

So much fuckery, so little time. We could spend hours up hours debating the smallest of things, including the Oxford comma (Oxford comma, still forever by the way) or fixating over genre choices. We’ve got publishing drama, plagiarism accusations, criticism and reviews, competitive drama, social media drama, personal drama, identity and representation drama, industry drama, and success/failure drama.

It’s a miracle we manage to get any actual writing done, right? This fuckery about drama, I’m certain, is the cause of many of us writers producing less words on the page than what we could. Is there an argument to staying out of everything and keeping our noses in our manuscripts? Sure. But is there also value to knowing and understanding what is happening so we don’t repeat history or misstep as another person has done? There’s that argument too. So which is it? This is that balancing rope we walk; how much do we dive into the drama, sound our voices, and how often do we just watch and observe… or the final option, ignore it all and just write?

Publishing Drama

Dear Author it began—a salutation as impersonal as a Dear John letter and twice as ominous. My heart did that little skip, hop, and a plummet into the stomach routine it had perfected over the years. This was it, another verdict from the high court of publishing.

Thank you for your submission, the email crooned, but after careful consideration... Ah, there it was. The literary equivalent of It's not you, it's me breakup line. Rejection with a side dish of placation. I imagined a room full of editors drawing straws to decide who got to send out the 'no thank you' notes today.

With a sigh that could have deflated all the balloons at a child's birthday party, I closed the email. One more for the collection; I could wallpaper my study with them by now. But this wasn't my first rodeo—nor my first rejection—and it wouldn't be my last. But this was my life in 2016, trying hard to get a publishing deal.

Later that day, my agent called, her voice a mix of sympathy and exasperation. They love the concept, but they want to push back the publication date... again. If I had a dollar for every delay, I could finance my own publishing house—with a built-in coffee shop.

Is it Mercury in retrograde or something? I joked, trying to keep the mood light despite the frustration of being stuck in literary limbo. Or perhaps the printer is being held hostage by a gang of rogue typographers?

Ha! If only it were that exciting, she quipped back. No, it's just the usual backlog. And, uh, there's a slight hiccup with the contract.

Of course, there is, I said, as my dream of finally holding my book in my hands danced away like a leaf on an autumn breeze. What flavor of hiccup are we talking about? Peppermint or spearmint?

More like wintergreen dipped in legalese. They want to renegotiate the royalties clause.

Ah, music to my ears, I replied, already mentally preparing to don my battle armor—a ratty bathrobe and the fuzzy slippers of war. Conflicts with publishers or agents were par for the course, but that didn't mean I had to like it.

Alright, let's counter with the terms we discussed. And maybe slip in a clause about timely publication, say within this decade? I suggested, half-serious, half-hoping it would be possible to wrangle some control over the process.

Will do, she assured me, the warrior in her voice matching my own. And hey, look on the bright side—at least when your book does come out, it'll be fashionably late to its own party.

Chic, I deadpanned, imagining my novel arriving at its launch, draped in velvet ropes and surrounded by paparazzi. Thanks, I needed that.

Anytime, she said before hanging up, off to joust with the windmills of contractual disputes.

I leaned back in my chair, the drama of the day swirling around me like a melodramatic mist. Publishing: where the only thing you could count on was uncertainty, delays, and the occasional absurdity. And yet, here I was, still typing, still dreaming, still hoping. Because, in the end, that's what writers do—we write through the drama, one word, one rejection, one ridiculous negotiation at a time.

We ended up not signing the one contract I did manage to score. I had run the math, and it made more sense to get my book out on my own, and not have to wait two full years before the publisher was ready to release it. Two years is a long time to sit on a book that was written with a trend in mind.

It was at that point—late 2016 into 2017—that I made the decision to go full self-published.

Writer’s Block (The Empty Creative Well)

Sometimes we confuse writer’s block with cold opens on the keyboard. Just a note—keyboard warm-ups are essential! I’ve found that conversing on Threads or writing about the struggle of how I’m feeling about the characters or book progress often jumps me from a place of stagnation into a creative whirlwind of ideas.

If writer's block were a person, it would be that smug gym trainer who insists you've got another ten reps in you when your arms are already jelly.

Come on, I muttered to myself, just type something. Even 'banana' is a start. But the truth was, 'banana' wasn't the start of anything except perhaps a smoothie recipe or a list of words that are fun to say.

Banana, I said aloud, testing the theory. Nope, still just a fruit—and a reminder of how fruitless my current writing endeavor was.

I pushed away from the desk in defeat, pacing the room as if I could outwalk the blockage in my brain. A glance at my phone derailed my internal pep talk. The notification icon blinked ominously—a message from a fellow writer, or so I thought.

Just when you’re ready to actually write, something happens. Either kids, spouse/partner, dog, or a fucking plagiarist.

Plagiarism Accusations

Hey, did you see this? The text was accompanied by a link. Curiosity overpowered my dread.

Clicking through, I was met with a blog post leveling accusations of plagiarism at another writer. My heart sank into my fuzzy slippers for the victim. There on the screen were excerpts from her latest book alongside passages from an obscure new novel. The similarities were there, though I had never read a word. Every example, character, and scene is plagiarized. Only the names