My name is Marita, and I’m a writer. I live in the midwestern U.S. in a working class suburb. I write a lot of different things, sell some of them when I can, and tend not to leave sex scenes out. You may expect to find stories here featuring same-sex couples as well as generally queer-positive themes, although those will not be the only things you find.
Thanks for dropping by, and thanks for reading. (formerly Katalinya Palokova, in case there is confusion about the name on the covers)
What is your writing process?
This has always struck me as a question that was invented by people who don't have any idea how creativity works but goddamn are they gonna pry that information out of people they view as being more artistic than they are. My "process" is that I think of words and then I type them or write them down, and then I make sure I spelled them all correctly and put them in the right grammatical order. There's no spellcasting, there's no daily ritual, there's no magical tea that I brew under the new moon and ferment until it produces the really good ideas. Sometimes I write shit down in sketch books, sometimes I sit down at a desk and type all proper like, sometimes I write things in highlighter on 27 consecutive sticky notes that I pilfered off some stranger's desk because it's the only thing I have within reach and I'm afraid I'll forget what I was thinking once the coffee wears off. If you are reading this question because you want to write and you don't know how, the only thing you really have to do is be aware of language and the way that you use it to think and to interact with the world around you. When you think things, remember the words you used. When you have ideas, turn them into complete sentences as well as you can. You don't have to tell the literal truth about everything that happens in your head, but you do have to know what words you would use to explain your own internal landscape if you had to or wanted to. That's what writing is. That's all it is.
And friends, if you can't do that? Good lord, that's fine. You might get better at it with practice, or you might not. Somebody with bad eyesight can't practice their way to better vision or work hard at seeing things without glasses. Not everyone is a writer. I think that takes an initial aptitude toward verbal description and expression combined with an interest in doing that describing and expressing well or often. If work will get you there, you'll know. The more you practice, the better you will get at writing everything that you want to. And if work isn't cutting it? My girl, try drawing! or talking! or baking things! or organizing things! there are literally limitless ways to contribute to the world and be part of it in creative, constructive contexts. The fact that you've made it this far through a longwinded answer about ~process~ means that you're a patient reader, at the very least, and you shouldn't sell yourself short for that.
So seriously, screw process. Writing is language turned to text, and the only real process involved is stopping everything else for long enough to get that text into a format that other people can discover and read.
Describe your desk
I have three desks, no lie. One is my mom's old typing/transcriptionist desk that she wanted to haul to a thriftstore but I kept, instead. It's big and grey-green and ugly as fuck, but I love it for entirely inexplicable reasons. One is a desk I bought from a community craft market that went under when the building changed hands, and I got it on the cheap and repainted it. One is a matching set of nightstand drawers from my grandparents' old bedroom furniture that I spaced a couple of feet apart then put a board across the top of them.
If I didn't have the benefit of hand-me-downs, the last one would probably be my only workspace. Which is fine. Don't ever be reluctant to do creative work in any place that you find yourself able to. You don't have to have a desk to make shit.
Each year on Halloween, when his strange, otherworldly appearance will be taken for a costume, the dryad of the old oak tree that watches over the town cemetery visits with his human neighbors. This year, the tradition changes for the better when a human spends the night with him, instead.
Dear potential reader: I'm not gonna bullshit you. This story is about some random outer space engineer guy in the medium-distant future getting a blowjob from his alien best friend while he's handcuffed to the overhead storage doohickey in the kitchen. The engineer guy is handcuffed, not the alien. They talk about it beforehand; it's cool.