Writing Is Fun. The Business of Writing Is Not.

A week ago I emailed my agent to find out the status of my middle-grade manuscript and my children’s manuscript only to discover the middle grade needed more work. Like any other writer I balked at my agent’s notion of the manuscript being incomplete and I moped for several days. The easiest thing to do would be to dump my agent and self-publish. I  had an artist lined up to paint the book jacket. Some author friends of mine were going to help me put the manuscript on Amazon. Just like that, I would be published. My seventh book. My friends would buy it, but the news media and the bookstores would ignore me. In my heart that isn’t what I want. I’m known in Madison, but I want more. Finding another agent is impossible. Agents don’t grow on trees. What should I do? I edited twenty-nine chapters in five days. I have ten more chapters to edit. It will be finished by Wednesday. My editor is reading the revised version of the manuscript and putting the chapters together. He likes what I have done. I have cut a quarter of it. Kids don’t want many descriptions and the manuscript has to move fast like a movie. That’s what I’m doing all week. Of course, my agent wanted me to hire another editor. She wants a chapter every few weeks but that isn’t me. In a week she will have a revived manuscript. That’s Steve Salmon. This is how I want to be remembered. New York might never happen, but I won’t change what I write.

My Struggle

My two main care attendants are arguing over who didn’t change me and who didn’t clean. This is funny when you think about it. They are acting like children. I told them so in front of a supervisor. Later I emailed them telling them I like and need both of them. They have to respect each other and work together. Another attendant believes there is no food in the apartment. I hear this every day. There is food here, but she wants me to order it online and buy $300 worth of food. I used to order food online during the pandemic but I didn’t get what I ordered, so I gave it up. I enjoy getting my own food. It reminds me of my grandfather who would go grocery shopping leaving a trail of tobacco behind him. You could always know when grandfather was in the store by the flakes of tobacco on the floor and particularly the bakery. Grandfather had a sweet tooth like me. I’m a bachelor living the life. What my attendants tend to forget is that I’m an author getting ready to dump my agent. She has two manuscripts and no marketing plan. I was promised a plan a week ago and nothing. This means that she isn’t interested. She is a liar. I’ve had it with her. The question is can I give up an agent? I’m thinking about it. Who didn’t clean or change me isn’t on my mind. I could care less. And I won’t ever go hungry. My staff needs to do their jobs and leave me alone. That won’t ever happen. 

April’s Fond Memories

It’s April. April brings back fond memories of the Writers Institute. For eighteen years I attended the best writing conference in the Midwest meeting agents, publishers, editors, publicists, authors, writers, and the news media. At the time it was the highlight of my year for me. Going downtown for three days was a big deal. Most of the time I lived with Mom and wrote. I would spend an entire year getting ready to go back to the conference. I loved pitching to agents. It was eight minutes of fame. Meeting and pitching to Stephen King’s agent is something I won’t ever forget. Of course, she rejected me. The memory lives on. Not many people have met Stephen King’s agent. People are always impressed with that. Every year I learned my craft from authors. Slowly building a career and landing Tina. Who would have thought I would have an agent, but I did it. After Mom died, the conference was home. Writers fed and took me to the bathroom sometimes. It was a new life but the conference made it easier. Now the conference is gone, but the memories still linger. April will always mean the writing conference to me. I live independently now writing multiple manuscripts for my agent. I feel like Stephen King writing in my apartment at night. It is an author’s life. Mom would be proud. Dreams do come true. 

It’s Absurd! It’s Unjust! I Will Protest!

I spoke to two legislators at the Capitol this week about the need to adjust the MAPP for people like me. The two legislators listened to my speech and it impacted them. Of course, that’s nothing new to me. They didn’t know anything about the MAPP Medicaid requirement. It seems no one knows about this program. Another man goes through this every year, too. Imagine that. One of the legislators is going to schedule a meeting with DSH. DSH is a joke. They are worthless and don’t know anything about MAPP. The legislators are not willing to make adjustments to the MAPP program, but “there may be some wiggle room.” Whatever that means. My benefits will be denied again in December leaving me angry. I’m going to change this requirement. I guess I’ll go homeless for a few days and then show up at the Capitol reeking of urine and feces. Before I do that, I will notify Robert Thomas of the Wisconsin State Journal and Doug Moe. If no one is willing to make adjustments to this unknown program then I will. Being discriminated against by the State every year gets my back up. It’s outrageous. I don’t know what to do now but demonstrate how absolutely absurd this Medicaid requirement is. And to do this to an author with multiple books is disgraceful. The State hasn’t met a person like Steven Salmon. They are in for a surprise. 

Years of Frustration

I live two miles away from the Capitol. On Wednesday I’m going to the Capitol for Disability Day. To most people with disabilities, being at the Capitol is a big deal. To me, I live on the square. Representatives have probably seen me riding around the Capitol wondering who I was. The man in the electric wheelchair with vegetables and fruits hanging on the back of the wheelchair. Who is he? I’m living my dream now. My agent accepted my middle-grade manuscript. I’m writing my thirteenth manuscript. Two manuscripts are being submitted by my agent to publishers, but I still have to fight the government in order to live. My benefits are always denied every year; either I make too much or I don’t have a job. When some people look at me, they think I’m helpless. And you’re going to take away my benefits because I don’t fit the ideal mold. Every year I go through this process. It is sickening. The State labeled me as unemployable when I was eighteen. Therefore I shouldn’t have to work. That left an indelible mark on me wanting to prove the State wrong. The $900 a year was probably a disabled advocate’s figure to put people with disabilities to work and say they are paid, making the State look good. The mentally incompetent don’t care about money. They are just happy to work. I’m a rare gem needing to be left to pursue my career. I want to write and earn money without my benefits being threatened every year. That’s my wish. 

Happy Birthday, Mom

The 12th is Mom’s birthday. It is hard to believe she has been gone for nine years. Sometimes it seems like yesterday. The bus drove by our old condominium tonight. I can remember Mom saying, “You can’t be independent.” Because I hid my poop problem from people and my mostsy. It is stupid now. Nine years later I’m living independently in my own apartment. I often wonder what Mom would say. She would be thrilled to see me on my own. I would love to show her the apartment. “Mom, this is my home.” Her face would light up. She would cry and hug me. And I did it all myself. I’m living the life I wanted. There are always care problems but that’s life. I have created a new life while building a career. Yes, Mom would be proud of me. It is not easy and never will be. I have made it despite my family. New York may not happen, but my words will live on for years to come. That’s my legacy. Thanks, Mom. I love you. Rest in peace. Amen. 

Funny things

My PM and AM main attendants are funny. They argue about stupid things like my poop, transferring me, and not taking meat out of the freezer. I drove to the bank Thursday to fix my debit card. It took two hours, but when I returned home I wanted to take a nap. My Pm attendant was upset about laying me down. He had just arrived for his sixteen-hour shift. Then the next day I was replying to a friend. It took an hour to write it. He was angry at me and there was no meat thawed. He yelled at me. Sometimes I go without my PM pills and root beer to let him sleep. I often have to get bus drivers and neighbors to let me in at night. He is tired working eighty hours a week. He is a great guy. I let him. We talk guy talk and watch games. When I try to be assertive, he gets mad. At times I have to scream to wake him up. It is scary, but I live with it. The agency doesn’t know. I don’t want to complain. A year ago I was told that I didn’t respect my staff by my former agency and no one wanted to work with me. Going hungry and not having a shower for a week at times made an indelible impression on my mind. I treasure my home, but I know I will have to return to a group home someday. I’m independent and an author. I have to do things when there is a problem. It is all on me. Then I’m making big decisions with my career. My staff doesn’t understand what I’m doing. It is frustrating. I’m living life. Care will always be a problem. 

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Writing about Intimacy Is Not Intimacy

Writing a romance novel makes me want her more. I can envision getting to know her as a person like Misty or Amber. I talk to women sometimes wondering if they see the real Steve. I don’t think they often do, but once in a while, a woman will come up to me to engage in a conversation. It always surprises me. A woman said I was handsome, but of course, she was married. No single woman would ever be interested in me. I fantasize about it but it won’t happen that way. My debit card is frozen again. There was an international charge on it. So, I’m waiting for a new card to arrive. At least I got cash when I was at the bank. The bank won’t flag the card if I subscribe to a dating website. I had to argue for that. I want female attention and sex. I have been here for almost a year and I had sex twice. That wasn’t the idea when I moved in. It’s frustrating. I don’t just want to write about having a girlfriend. I need to experience it. I still haven’t taken a shower with a female. That’s on my bucket list. She is out there. But where? Someday I will find her. 

I wouldn’t presume to tell people what they can write about. Why do people tell me?

I went to Milwaukee to see the Bucks with my cousin. He told me, “Don’t write about family or sex.” I wrote and emailed all of my loved ones about my first sexual experience. It was a long time coming. Forty-nine years I waited to be with a woman. I had to tell the world, but that was six years ago. My cousin will always tell it until he dies. Like me running over a care attendant. That was a year ago, but I will hear about it forever. It is funny. Finding sex is impossible for me. I want it. “Steve, don’t put it on your blog. People read it,” my cousin said. “And don’t write or publish anything about the family.” Let me see … I have spent three years writing a manuscript and $500 on an editor. I’m supposed to dump a manuscript for them. I write about my family because I love them. I rarely see them and writing about my family gives me time with them. They should be glad I’m writing, but no. I endure problems like being stuck outside in zero degrees at night. My care attendant fell asleep and I had the bus driver call my manager, who came to get me in the apartment. After being out in the cold for ten minutes, I waited in the bus until my manager arrived. That’s my life. I want people to know what I face daily. It is not easy. I do everything myself. My family doesn’t have to deal with multiple things and still write. I’m building a legacy. I remember my nonverbal friend committing suicide. People wondered why. When my time comes, my words will live on. Then my family will see what I have done. Until then, I’m moving forward with the impossible dream. I will always love my family, but I’m going to live my life. 

I Feel Harassed

The State wants more documentation for my employment to be eligible to receive services to live. My care agency has given me a fake job to fulfill this stupid requirement. I live independently. If I work, I lose my apartment. I’m an author with a literary agent and six published books. I had a play produced on New Year’s Eve and wrote a monologue. I’m publishing two books. I don’t want and need a job. I’m unable to physically care for myself. The MAPP program is a great program for most people with disabilities. I’m all for it. Ninety percent of the disabled are employed in Dane County. That’s remarkable and should be applauded. Working for $900 a year isn’t me. I’m a professional author. I turned down a job for $100,000 a year last year. I can’t find a writing job for $900 a year. I have tried to, but they don’t exist. I’m paying an editor $500 to edit a manuscript. That’s a month of work for me. Every year I have to go through this discrimination and humiliation. It is degrading and exhausting. I know you don’t care. Rules are rules. I’m publishing this year, and when I do interviews with the news media I will be sure to mention this disgraceful practice of the State. You can cut my services. I will show up at your office, reeking of shit and urine. This is how I will show you and the State. Then I will go to the media. I’ve had it with your rules. Let me live my life.