Sigh (Delays)

I know all about victim mentality. 

The importance of finding the good. 

But MAN.

Sometimes it really feels like the universe conspires against you. 

Sisyphus had it easy. 

At least he got the boulder up the fucking hill. 

It’s so painful/embarrassing to have an actually nice computerless weekend away and think, “Maybe I’ll come home to an acceptance!”… and return to not one, but TWO, rejections. 

I spent nearly two hours this morning trying to find just ONE magazine to submit a particular poem (a poem I ADORE, a poem that’s IMPORTANT), only to find one pub that fits the vibe… only to find the pub in question is defunct.

Still haven’t heard from Querencia Press about the Sluts and Whores Anniversary Edition and I love that press and adore their EIC so I am honestly crossing my fingers at this point ‘cause if they don’t come through, Sluts and Whores will be condemned to Out of Print Limbo for who knows how long. (And yes, they’ve already confirmed they will take on the title, there’s just been delays in communication, so that one will probably work out okay.) 

Then there’s the podcast bs. I was genuinely motivated about the relaunch but this housing insecurity is wreaking havoc on any semblance of stability or organization. This has been the most chaotic move of my life, ‘cause all I cared about was escaping the cockroach apartment. (Fair enough.) 

But I woke up remembering I wanted to record the new podcast ep today… only to realize I don’t have my fucking headphones. 

85% of my stuff is in a storage unit (mostly unlabelled.) Another 10% is at my parents’ place. (Also unorganized.) The remaining 5% is with me in my friend’s extremely chilly basement suite— supposedly, a short term solution when I’ve already been here a month longer than intended. My hopes to escape housing instability have been profoundly dashed these past few months, and since I still can’t afford “normal” rent, I don’t have a fucking clue what to do, or where to go. 

That Writer’s Trust of Canada Grant was fucking great ‘cause it gave me an excuse to escape income support. (Income support was only giving me $1000 a month, and they are very strict about not letting you earn anything else. In other words, it’s a poverty trap.) But I only got half of my requested grant amount so I still don’t have any extra cash, and of course, leaving income support means I’m back to zero income, ‘cause god forbid a person with a cornucopia of mental health diagnoses actually gets on disability support in this province. 

And, yes, technically, I can record the podcast ep without my headphones. But I sure as hell can’t edit without them. I have NO CLUE where the fuck they are; no clue even where to start. I still split my fucking infinitives and my syntax still clunks and clangs and clamours and I know there’s a lot of people who care and/or want to collab but in the end I’m doing this pretty much solo and when your life is crashing down around you, what’s the point? 

I’m not getting suicidal. I’m getting realistic. I have to figure out this stupid life shit before putting myself out there more.

That sucks.

But it’s okay. 

Like the story of my latest tattoo. I wanted to honour a cat, and my ill-fated attempt to find her a decent home. I wanted to remind myself, “Things don’t always work out, and that’s okay.” 

Well, true to the universal bitch slap, the tattoo itself was HORRIBLY botched and the Edmonton tattoo parlour in question didn’t give a flying fuck.

Thankfully, amazing Coe of the Arthouse Collective in Calgary came to the rescue. Not only did they take two freaking hours to fix up a teeny tattoo, but they charged me only 100 +tax for the entire service.

There are good people, and there are happy endings. 

It’s okay when things don’t work out. 

The hope is, they eventually will. 

So. No podcast this month (or, perhaps, no podcast until my housing situ is sorted.) No stable housing this month, either. (Or, perhaps, longer.) No income solution (but I’m applying for more grants, and when housing stabilizes -haha- I can at least look into tutoring day job type bullshit again.) No clear path on the MFA. No acceptances. No respite. 

What’s that Buffy line? 

“No weapons. No friends. No hope. Take it all away, and what’s left?” 

“Me.” 

There is good here. Inside me, and around me. Just the other night I was overwhelmed with the gratitude of such a FULL life. I have fantastic friends. A wonderful cat. I love my family (immediate and extended.) I’ve amalgamated some breathtaking accomplishments/experiences. I’ve healed from a plethora of vices. I’ve made peace with a past that would kill most people. I live with trauma and heart-eating rage and still find a way to be kind. I care. I kick ass on stage and on page. I’m young, smart, healthy, cute, talented, and HOLY FUCK am I determined, like holy fuck keep throwing those boulders, it’s cool, I’ve got this, I’m used to it. 

These dips are a part of life. And, especially, part of a creative career. Stripping was the only time my money stress alleviated (even then, I was frugal af.) Housing has been an issue ever since I moved out of that tiny basement suite off Whyte Avenue in my very early twenties (and anyway that landlord was a crook too.) Most of my life, money and/or housing has been the ONLY issue. (Like now.)

Which means I have a good thing going. 

Not many people wake up knowing exactly what they’re supposed to do or who they’re meant to be, and have the time/space/motivation to make it happen.

Few have made it this far up the writing hill.

Many would have given up by now.

Many have.

I don’t know when things will steady out or calm the fuck down enough that I can actually CONTRIBUTE in the ways I want to contribute, and PURSUE all the projects I wish to pursue. I can only hope that when I pick myself up, my dreams WILL still be there. Which was kinda the whole point of my first new podcast ep, so there you go.

I don’t just write this shit. I fucking LIVE it.

And my god I swear too much but whatever.

At least my tattoo is fixed. ❤ 

C.E. Hoffman

cehoffman.net

Oi (Podcast Relaunch)

That should have been easy.

I finally decided to relaunch my podcast, Scribbles & Spills!

Yay!

I LOVE writing, and finding ways to get that writing into the world, whether via publication, performance, or sometimes, recording.

Creation? Easy.

The getting-it-into-the-world part? Less so.

Don’t get me wrong: I love recording my podcast. Hell, I even love editing it! Just like I love researching magazines/publications/contests/grants/etc.

It’s that next step. The sending. The waiting. The hoping. The invariable bumps on a road I wish was a lil’ smoother.

That road which leads to so many dead ends. Rejections. Tech hiccups. The why-the-hell-am-I-even-doing-this moments.

Example: I switched my podcast hosting from Buzzsprout to Spotify for Creators, despite not liking Spotify in general. Should be easy, right?

WRONG.

When my new podcast ep went live, I discovered it had ONLY gone live on Spotify, and nowhere else! This lead to an excruciating “customer service” experience until things were finally resolved.

Then: I wanted to post about the pod on my blog! Easy, right?

Sigh.

Wrong again.

This time, I was inexplicably blocked from my blog, couldn’t figure out which email was associated with the account (turned out to be an ancient address I no longer had access to, so I had to FIRST recover the EMAIL, THEN get into the blog.) “Customer service” was, again, unhelpful.

I’m not doing this to knock customer service agents. They do what they can with what they have.

I’m saying this shit has gotten needlessly complex, esp for us tech-avoidant folks.

I mostly eschew social media, in favour of these slower internet corners (this blog, my website, and now, my relaunched podcast, which you can listen to almost anywhere, and when I say “almost”, I mean it, ’cause I was sick of sharing the RSS feed to each individual hosting site, and I didn’t send it to Amazon, ’cause fuck those guys.)

The thing is, whether you opt for slow or fast promo, the internet still feels like shouting into the void. (For most of us.)

THAT’S what makes this hard.

Still, I gotta have hope.

No matter how many Likes or Views or Listens I do (or don’t) get, that doesn’t show how many sad kids have taken out Sluts and Whores or Losers and Freaks from the library. How many of them have felt a little lighter or more loved as a result.

That’s why I’m writing. Submitting stories. Entering contests. Planning events to perform and read my work.

Relaunching my podcast.

The algorithm can do whatever the fuck it wants. I’m here. I’m creating. I’m hoping and trying to share my creations. ‘Cause that’s what being an artist -and human- is all about.

Listen to the latest ep of Scribbles & Spills here! I share updates, spill some secrets, and explain why I’m taking a new direction with the podcast.

Love,

C

It’s the hope that keeps you alive! (Fringe Reflections)

Let’s talk about failure! 

I had a speech.

You’ll probably never hear it. (Read more to find out why!) 

It was full of stuff like, “Failure isn’t death; failing to try is.” 

Buuuut I kinda have to call bullshit, ‘cause when I walked onto the stage for my opening show and saw the ten people who showed up, I was crucified. 

Failure does kill you, just not permanently. You have to climb off your cross. Clean up. Go home. Try again next time. 

My speech was all about the failure of my last book but failure was staring me in the face in real time and I’ve had enough failure for a lifetime.

People are telling me to hustle and that it gets better but I’ve been hustling and waiting for things to get better my whole life, and I’m tired!! 

This is the time when other Fringers post photo albums and say what a smashing success it all was, and that’s nice, but I want to be honest about how hard this is and how sensitive I am because that’s what it is to be an artist. You’re this open, gaping hole. 

And yes, I need better boundaries. But this is also just what I do, who I am. 

I am hopeful. 

But hope is hard. 

I want to believe my weird words can make difference.

But some days, I need a little more proof. 

Sometimes, you don’t get it. 

Sometimes, you do. 

‘Cause when I walked onto the stage for the SECOND show, it was like a resurrection. 

People actually showed up! 

I got nervous! 

I even forgot a line!!!!!!!!!! 

But if I had to choose between the jitters of exposure and the peril of irrelevance, I’d choose the former every time. 

It probably helped that I ran around giving away free tickets: I had met two of the couples in the audience a mere hour earlier. 

Fringe was a madness of moments. All a flurry. Synchronous. In the flow of life and how it breathes. And forever on the edge of death. 

The first performance, I saw the hustle, the desperation, the ugly loneliness and painful mediocrity that plagues many an artist in this machine-eat-poet world. 

The next time, I saw the light. Walked with friends who showed up to support me. Felt love. Felt loved. 

“I dare you to imagine a future better than your past.” If you’ve seen my business cards, or received an email from me, you know that line pretty well by now. 

We have to imagine a greater place than where we’ve been or where we are. Otherwise, how will we have the courage to continue? Or do better. 

It’s HARD to go out every day, or every other day, trying not to compare (but comparing anyway.) Every day hoping, but not knowing. Dreaming dreams you may or may not have the power to bring to life. Knowing you have to dream anyway. 

The third day started… weird. I went down early with a friend who was too shy to help me hand out tickets and after having free tickets awkwardly rejected by one couple, I slunk back into devastated. Sat in grass. Tried to remember that feeling called confidence. 

But then Milo, my lighting person, showed us a stick an unhoused person gave them, and they promised me shit was weird today, but it was GOOD weird. 

Me, Milo, and Kris (my sound person) talked about life and love and death anxiety and we had to rush to open the doors and it felt like everything would be okay. 

And it was. 

The audience TRIPLED since the first show!!! 

Two thirds were people I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW!!! 

Best yet, an incredible local writer/performer (and beloved connection) Some-Sum attended, and helped set up the audience for a much lighter vibe. People found the humour in the darkness. They laughed!!! Which meant I didn’t need to cry. It was the first night I didn’t produce tears for How A Resurrection Really Feels, but it felt just fine. 

More walks with friends, new and old, post-show. A bus ride home with my bestie. 

Hope. Rekindled. And alive. 

Tired, too. Ready for it to be over. 

But with three more shows to go (and promo too!) you have to keep on walking. 

(And get your rest.) 

Ofc, the fun thing about art is it has this great habit of killing you right when after you get back up. 

The fourth show was almost as bad as the first. Except for the sweet older couple (Lynn and Lester) who talked to me afterwards. They said it was everyone else’s loss that they weren’t here. 

They called my writing beautiful. 

It’s rare that people see the beauty in this mess. 

For that/them, I am grateful. 

I went to buy a chocolate bar and left chocolateless ‘cause $8 is too expensive a sad indulgence on an artist’s budget. Especially when 2/4 shows had half the audience originally expected. 

Fucking yo-yos! Is it too much to ask for a straight line? Some solid ground to walk on? 

Something?! 

Something. 

FIFTH night. I switched back and forth between my Fukit, It’ll get better, and You Got This playlists until I resembled a person. I put on my boots and my dress and flashed my Fringe pass for a free bus ride. 

I showed up. 

THE SHOW (ALMOST) SOLD OUT THAT NIGHT.

Weird night for such a full house. And they actually let in latecomers?! And me, exhausted, all fresh from crying in the shower, and the tears kept coming and the shakes did too but I showed up and kept showing up because PEOPLE SHOWED UP FOR ME. 

It was Fuckit and It gets better and You Got This all rolled up in one but what really made my night were all the hugs afterwards. 

I SO needed those. 

Night out after with more friends. The kind of night that makes me go, Oh, shit, I remember this. 

Remember when life was fun?! EASY?! Remember when things made sense. 

Frank’s Pub just in time to order (amazing) food. A long table of pals chatting and laughing the time away. Some home after that, the rest of us off to see Funkafeelya at Blues on Whyte which will probably rank as one of the best vibe shows of my life. And one of the best nights for dancing. 

The last night. Well, day. 3:30 PM. Grabbing gift cards for Kris and Milo. Ready to be over. Ready to be… something. 

The last night (well, day) had its problems! A playlist that wouldn’t behave. A video camera that wouldn’t behave, either. (It cut out during the ONLY PART I WANTED TO UPLOAD TO YOUTUBE.) Weird, rando no-shows who I KNOW bought tickets?! And a couple actually left during the final piece (which, honestly, lit a fucking fire up in me.) 

But none of it mattered, not really. 

‘Cause it was FINALLY DONE. 

And I was as grateful for being finished as being given the opportunity. 

To all the strangers I didn’t know, or the folks I didn’t recognize, or friends who showed up but didn’t say hi (whether belatedly or irl): THANK YOU FOR BEING THERE. You fill up the room/my heart. I appreciate you. 

As for the friends who showed up and gave hugs/hung out/otherwise made your presence known, THANK YOU (and so sorry if I’m forgetting anyone, or misspelling names!)

1st good night (20ish people):

Chris B 

Victoria 

Kaylee 

Olesa 

Ashlee 

Mark

Chloe and Michael of the Witch of Edmonton (who sat front row!) 

Art and Rachel

Ed (the volunteer who told me I matter) 

2nd good night (30ish people):

Patty and Dee

Ryan (Some-Sum) 

Chris T 

Adam

Sean G

Anita and Travis 

Phillip and Andrea 

Jeff

3rd good night (45- almost sold out!!!): 

Shawn (who was actually there TWO nights!!!) 

Nathan

Alan 

Dan 

Murray 

Kim and Chris 

Cole Carlee Savanah Mackenzie Forrest 

Nichole and Jake 

Jordan and Mia 

Raymond 

Barry
Faris 

Dawn and Foster

Chris (CS) 

Carolyn and Mark 

Marc and Sean

4th good night (30ish people again, would’ve been more but lotsa mystery noshows):

Sterling and Barry 

Auntie Rose! 

Angela (my pole instructor!!!) 

Frank, dear Frank 

Andrew Wade of Silly Poems for Awesome Adults 

Sahhara 

Cassandra 

Jane

Marcus

Jeffrey Matucha (who flew up all the way from Nevada)

my sis!! (who drove up all the way from Calgary)

Dylan!! (what a nice surprise!) 

Dylan’s friend! (don’t know your name but you were a fucking sweetheart) 

And of course, thanks to who all showed up on the two BAD nights too!!! Gordon and Susan, Andrew Hamilton of Kaliban, Estel, Merik, Bill, not to mention Jared and my mumndad who basically went to EVERY SINGLE SHOW!!! 

And for the out of towners who were cheering me on, who even bought tickets knowing they wouldn’t be able to use em: I so hear/need/see your support, even from far away. ❤

As for the local pals who didn’t show. Couldn’t find the time/spoons. Said they’d try but couldn’t quite hack it. Said they would then disappeared. Sent apologies. 

I’ll admit, that’s hard for me. I’m pouring my blood, sweat, tears and soul into this, and all I’m asking for is some support. When people show up, it means the world to me, and that’s not exaggerating. It makes me realize people care. It keeps me going another day, or another year. 

Buuut… I DO get that life happens. ❤ (And ofc expectations differ if we’re not very close.) (AND, honestly, if you tried to come but were late and got locked out, I’m sooo sorry!!! Thank you for trying!!!)

Annnnnd… 

after ALL that. 

The aforementioned blood, sweat, tears, etc. The exhaustion. The breakdowns. The doubt. The anxiety. The genuine tears, on stage and off. 

I got… 

four hundred dollars 

from Fringe. 

Less than HALF of what I was expecting. 

Not even enough to cover my car insurance. 

Annnnd 

just when I was ready to throw myself off something I realized I should email to follow up and, YEP, a second payment was still on its way. (Which turned out to be a SHOCKINGLY SUBSTANTIAL PAYMENT!!!)

FUCKING 

PHEW. 

THAT experience, more than any other, summarizes Fringe. FFS to Oh wait to Nvm, it’s all gonna be okay. 

When I was super low about low turnout, I talked to lots of amazing friends, and they were kind/encouraging, but they didn’t quite understand. 

My Ketu is in my 10th House. 

In laymen’s terms, I’m fucked. 

Basically, my shadow likes to sabotage me anytime I’m centre stage, but centre stage is crucial to my very being! And pretty damn essential for my art. 

My art is so close to my heart that it’s me.

So when my art is rejected, or ignored, it feels like my rapes, my humiliations… don’t matter. Or are okay. 

Same with the other stuff I write about. Homeless teens on busses, girls jumping off bridges, stories I know need to be told. 

This excruciation called Fringe helped me realize that having my Ketu in my 10th house DOESN’T mean I’m fucked. 

I JUST NEED TO GET OUT OF MY OWN WAY. 

Stop having something to prove; instead, have something to live for. 

If I can make this not about me (despite my work being acutely personal)…

if I can truly trust…

truly let go… 

it’ll all be okay. 

We SHOULD talk about failure. And death. And heartbreak. Because these things happen, and how they impact us is IMPORTANT. 

But it’s not all about that. 

Nor is at all about success, love, and life’s vibrancy. 

It’s just the moments. 

Magically running into Andrew. Magically running into Chris B so he could hang with us after the show. Making accidental friends. Those group hugs, that dance floor. The volunteer who complimented my cowboy boots. 

Crying with J under a beautiful tree. 

It’s all this, all the time. It’s the rushing and the stillness, the growth and the decay. It’s missing him EVEN AFTER EVERYTHING. It’s hunger, it’s fullness, it’s cravings and being overfed. It’s puke and guts and spit. It’s the smell of trees and being scared they’ll cut them all down. It’s being tired, asleep, and awake. It’s waking up every day because we MUST be here for a reason, even if that reason is just this. 

To be. 

I used to live like that all the time! Life was an open book, a series of moments ever unfolding. 

Somewhere along the way, that changed. 

I want it back. 

I want to keep creating. 

Keep journeying. 

I want to find a way to support myself- financially, and emotionally. 

I want a home and a family and a legacy. 

I want true love, and true success, however that looks for me. 

Will I ever get it? 

I don’t know. 

One thing I DO know: 

Hope is hard. 

But it’s necessary. 

Thanks for being here with me. ❤

PS To all the folks who have sent me lovely emails/messages and haven’t heard replies: I see/hear/appreciate you- just getting my correspondence mojo back. 🙂

PPS I WILL try to salvage the failure speech and perhaps still upload the full one woman show to YT despite it having the invariable glitch gaps- stay tuned!

No Actual Sin @ Edmonton Fringe (aka Overwhelm)

Mercury’s (finally) Direct. 
My ear piercings are infected. 

I’m trying to practice driving, heal my traumatized nervous system, mend my broken heart, move out, make new friends, manifest income, stay healthy/young, grow up, find love, and somehow find time to enjoy these last days of Summer. 

I’m everything, everywhere, all at once, and then some. 

I have to sew up the pockets in my Fall coats ‘cause I can’t afford new ones, get the zipper in my shoe replaced (right after the OTHER zipper was fixed), manifest a shower curtain, pray my car doesn’t break down again, measure my furniture to decide what I’ll take and what I’ll leave behind because once again I’m cramming my oversized life into a much smaller space than I actually need. 

Oh, and I have to promote my Fringe show! 

It’s times like these I wonder, Does everyone feel this? 

People have to-dos longer than my bucket list. What do they do about overwhelm, stress? Am I less resilient? More sensitive? 

Or should I be grateful my spirit refuses to let me push this shit down/away. 

I can’t scroll past this feeling. I can’t mute it with cigs or caffeine or sugar or McDevils or just keep myself so fucking busy I can pretend I don’t notice. 

On the one hand, I’m lucky. 

On the other, I am not made to function in this very messed up system, and nobody rewards you for that. Nobody pats you on the back for so expertly exemplifying what’s wrong with the modern world. 

Artists are, by default, outcasts. 

I never understood the weight of that until now. 

It was bad enough in school for obvious reasons, but now that I’m standing on the outside, I realize how lonely it really is. 

But I must keep showing up. 

Because I must. 

Because these words chose me. 

Because there’s so many stories, so many lives, so many lessons, that still go ignored and unheard. Especially those stories about scared girls who hit rock bottom and are trying to climb up, and out. 

I’m still climbing. 

Still falling. 

Still hoping. 

I’m down here with sweat in my hair and blood on my nails but I keep crawling ‘cause I can see a light up above and I know there’s people up there who need my story, just like I need them to listen. 

There’s girls who never made it up. Girls who are too scared to speak. Girls who think nobody cares. 

I’m doing this for them. 

I’m doing this for me. 

No Actual Sin is about hurt. And healing. 

Innocence lost. Innocence regained. 

It’s a journey incomplete- a journey I’m still on. 

A road travelled more than you’d think. 

Tickets are on sale now for these shows at the Yardbird Suite (11 Tommy Banks Way): 

Aug 16 12:30 PM 

Aug 18 515 PM 

Aug 19 9 PM 

Aug 21 215 PM 

Aug 22 7 PM 

Aug 24 330 PM 

If you’re in Edmonton (or can get there), I’d love to see you at a show. 

Bring your good vibes, open minds, and hearts ready to heal.

All good things,

C.E. Hoffman

cehoffman.net

Press releases work! (sometimes)

I’ve been a little quiet on here. (Mercury Rx doesn’t help.)

BUT. My one woman show No Actual Sin will debut at this year’s Edmonton Fringe, and Broadway World was kind enough to publish a press release.

Read it here!

Tickets on sale SOON!!!

All good things,

C.E. Hoffman

In with the new (chapbook re-release)

“Oppression is SO last century.”

-C.E. Hoffman

It’s easy to give up. (Ish.)

When something doesn’t go the way we planned, we’d rather forget than fix.

Me, I’m a sucker for resurrection.

The newly revised and extended edition of my poetry chapbook Blood, Booze and Other Things in Nature is now available from Bottlecap Press!

Bottlecap Press has taken great care of my other chapbook, Ghosts, Trolls, and Other Things on the Internet, and I am delighted for BBN to join the fold!

Bottlecap Press does NOT sell on Amazon, which I think is pretty cool. Instead, you can order directly from their website.

Grab a copy for you/your friends!

Here’s the book jacket blurb to whet your wordy appetite:

What’s it like being the only guy in your pre-natal yoga class?

What do you do when your wedding toast becomes spoken word?

Which alcohol mixes best with C-PTSD?

BLOOD, BOOZE, AND OTHER THINGS IN NATURE is a poetry chapbook by award winning author C E Hoffman.  Inspired by slam poetry, punk, and The Beats, Hoffman’s poetry tenderly and irreverently explores mental illness, sexuality, the nights we’ll always remember, and the ones we wish we could forget.

(I especially love that the blurb references a poem that is no longer included in the new collection. In with the new, with respect to the old!)

Much thanks to Alien Buddha press for releasing the first edition of Blood, Booze, and Other Things in Nature. (Hold on to those copies: they’re collector’s items now!)

Buy the new edition here.

All good things,

C.E. Hoffman

cehoffman.net

It’s the hope that kills you.

Well, I’m embarrassed. 

If you read my last post, you saw I was pretty damn down in the dumps, but hopeful (so hopeful!) everything would work out when Indigo chose to distribute Losers and Freaks across Canada. 

I was sure it would happen. It sold out in almost every store they stocked it. Surely, they would see the potential of this book and give me/it a break. 

Well. 

They didn’t. 

I’m almost more embarrassed by my suicidal reaction to said news than the news itself. I work so hard and dream so big that whenever I bump into yet another disappointment, which any writer should take bravely on the chin, I just want to lay down and die. 

There’s a reason few wear their (he)art on their sleeve. 

Failure’s bad enough. 

Failing at the thing you love most… 

The title of this blog post is from Ted Lasso. The eponymous character contests this maxim, and I did, too, until I realized how my hope really is the death of me. Hope keeps me banging on this door called Success even though the folks therein have made it pretty fucking clear I’m not invited.     

Yet I try. Again, and again. And again. 

When will I take the hint? 

Never, evidently. 

This time, though… I really wanted to give up. On life, and if not that, on writing. 

My love affair with words/publishing said words made me a perfect candidate for abusive relationships. Writing is the most toxic, addictive lover I’ve ever known. No matter what I give, it’s never enough. No matter how much they fuck me up, I can’t let go. 

I wanted to let go. Give up. Grudgingly embrace stripping as the fallback career. Grudgingly befriend failure like I haven’t feared it for so long. 

I took a much needed break from obligations, including social media, and was ready to announce my early retirement- not that you can retire from an industry that has yet to acknowledge your existence. 

I’m a hypocrite. I urge people via my writing to live their dreams/live even though I know following your dreams is the fast track to loserdom and poverty. 

The starving artist thing is kind of cool in your twenties, but years march on, and when you’re thirty-something, “no longer the ingenue” (quoth Larson), “the world’s oldest child prodigy” (quoth American in Paris), and you look around at your friends and peers and cousins way younger than you and realize while they were all getting married and houses and nice shiny happy grownup lives, you were getting super into the Beats. Perfecting your cadence even though you perform maybe once a year onstage. Sitting around thinking under trees like it’s doing a goddamn thing. Reading, reading, watching TV, reading, watching movies, listening to music/podcasts, reading the newspaper, reading articles, observing humanity as it devours itself/the earth, hugging trees, talking to animals, listening to people talk on the bus while you hold your breath ‘cause busses have really started to stink, and half the time people aren’t even talking anymore ‘cause they’re all buried inside their phones, and you look out at the world where anyone with power is spoon-feeding oligarchs and cutting down trees and you see that not only are you hopeless/useless, but you don’t even have that bare minimum contentment on which everyone else seems to subsist. Their phone/caffeine/sugar addictions, their semi-stable marriages, their dogs, their mortgages. Their fucking driver’s licenses. 

You realize that, not only have you completely, utterly failed at achieving your dreams, you’ve also failed at procuring anything resembling a normal life.

Congratulations!  

What is there to do but give up? Shouldn’t I grow up already? Thirty-two may look young especially when you take all this collagen but it sure don’t feel that way when you wrote your first novel at eleven and none of them are even published yet. When you’re rushing against the ticking time bomb called mental illness because you just might get so low you won’t get up again or so high you won’t ever come down, and you’re not even sure if you’re actually mentally ill or just a “frustrated young man” (quoth It’s a Wonderful Life) who wanted something more. Wanted to DO more. Wanted to be more. Be better. Wanted to plant a few trees on the earth, a few seeds in people’s hearts and minds. But you can’t because the industry is fucked and by the way so’s the world and all the more fucked is people’s attention spans, so, REALLY, what’s the point writing books when people can’t even read them?!

I’ve done the math. I’ve checked my bank account. I’ve appraised this whole living-with-the-parents situ and I am forced to conclude the writing thing ain’t working, or, at least, it’s not working within the timeline I require lest I go even crazier than I’ve already been. 

I can’t keep collecting income support and battling local bookstores. I can’t keep promising friends I’ll buy them coffee “next time.” I can’t keep pretending I’m totally okay with my water when all my friends are buying paninis and when I have nothing to show or show for, not even a scrap of nobility. 

I want to give up. Hang up my personality/ambitions and get one of those boring grownup jobs that would make me want to saw my own eyes out. Find some nice guy I’m not very sexually attracted to and have a nice marriage I’m not particularly enamoured with. 

Of course, I couldn’t. I’d break, break up, break down, break away. 

No matter where I am or who I’m trying to be, I wake up with plots in my head, all those old imaginary friends we call characters, begging me to continue. 

I can’t pretend I’m done. 

I can’t pretend I don’t love it. 

I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. 

I love it. 

It’s agony. 

I can never give (it) up.

The craziest thing? 

I’M STILL HOPEFUL!!! 

Hopeful this will all work out. Hopeful that the decades (yes, decades!) of insecurity, frustration, rejection and disappointment will be worthwhile. Hopeful that I’ll stand in front of a room one day and say, 

“I didn’t think I’d make it, but I’m so grateful to be here.” 

‘Cause this isn’t just about me, or for me. I toil in this thankless industry because I want to be a beacon of hope (yep, HOPE) for people like me. People who don’t belong no matter where they go. People who were beaten up, mocked, pushed around, abused, raped, interrupted, underestimated, misinterpreted, misunderstood, ignored, forgotten, overlooked. 

I know what it’s like to wake up and not want to be here. I know what it’s like to try to leave. I know what it’s like to attack your body with anything sharp or psychedelic you can get your hands on, to empty yourself and starve yourself and hate yourself and try to shape yourself into something better or beautiful because you’re so convinced you’re ugly and wrong. 

I know what it’s like to walk into a room and have everyone look at you like you have no right to be there- or anywhere. 

But guess what. 

I have a right to be here. I have a right to be heard. I have a right to stand in front of a room and say I’m proud. Because I have a fuck lot to be proud of. 

And so do you. 

I’m not just doing this for me. I’m doing this for all the mes, the angry punk me, the sad emo me, the hearty hippie me, the starry-eyed stoner, the feminist freak, and I’m doing this for everyone who has something to say but doesn’t know how to say it. I’m writing for the ones who deserved a chance, but didn’t get one, the ones who had a chance, but blew it, the ones who aren’t sure what they want to be, the ones who know exactly what they wanted to be or have or do but for whatever fucked up reason the world said, “Nah.” 

I’m doing this for my sister. My parents. For my grandparents, including the grandfather I never met. I’m doing this for my ancestors who starved on potatoes, the ones who suffered in icy hellscapes, the ones who bent and scraped in shipyards and farms and other people’s kitchens, the ones who died in asylums. 

I’m doing this for the daughter I had to give away. 

I’m doing this because there has to be something beautiful in all this ugliness. There has to be peace buried under war, love forged from hate, there has to be a reason I’m here other than some evolutionary mistake. 

I’m doing this because I have no other reason to exist. My heart doesn’t beat blood, it beats words, my heart sends up love songs to the universe, my heart clamours with all that is unspoken and unheard. 

So. Fuck it. 

I wish I could give up. I can’t. 

I can, however, give up on trying to prove myself, ‘cause I already fucking have. My being alive today is a goddamn fucking miracle and as much as I’d love a big room of people clapping it up to prove I’m worthy of love or existence I don’t need it, not anymore. 

I need to write. I need to move. I need to love. I need to read under trees and be buried under them too. I need to scream and thrash onstage, whether in front of five people or five hundred or nobody, I just need me, I just need to be here, I need to do the miracle of life justice, and I have no other way of doing so but this. What you’re reading. This weird fucky experience of lending some stranger (or friend) my heart/brain, of letting you know you’re not alone. 

I’ve gotta keep doing this, but I can’t keep doing it like this. 

I am probably, almost definitely, giving up social media. At least for a while. I’m sick of it fucking with my dopamine, sick of encouraging screen addictions, sick of feeding the all-devouring doomscroll. Everyone’s vying for a millisecond of everyone else’s time. How can anyone make good art when all you care about is a click? 

I will not, however, go full Kaczynski. You can check out my website and/or this blog for updates, and feel free to email me, whether you’re a stranger or a friend (‘cause, let’s face it, a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met.) 

Speaking of updates, here’s a list of my recent/upcoming releases (both print and performance): 

Out soon: 

Blood, Booze, And Other Things in Nature (poetry chapbook) 

Extended/Revised Edition 

Bottlecap Press (original edition released by Alien Buddha Press) 

Later in 2025: 

Skeletons and Other Things in My Closet (poetry chapbook) 

Anxiety Press 

No Actual Sin (one woman show) 

(adapted from my chapbook of the same name released by Defunct Magazine) 

will be performed at the Edmonton Fringe Festival in August (if I get the paperwork done on time)

2026: 

Sluts and Whores (short story collection) 

5th Anniversary Extended/Revised Edition 

Querencia Press (original edition released by Thurston Howl Publications) 

Querying soon: 

Only Lovers (prosetry collection) 

I am thinking of trotting out one of my unpublished novels soon, too, whether querying to agents or publishers. 

You will always be able to find purchase links for all titles on my website. Buying a book and/or posting a glowing review somewhere seriously means the world to me. 

Maybe hope kills you. Maybe hope keeps you alive. Maybe it’s both. Maybe that’s the paradox of being an artist/human.

Maybe the madness in me sees the madness in you. 

And maybe, just maybe… 

everything will work out. 

All good things,

C.E. Hoffman

cehoffman.net

PS If I ever DO get on the other side of that godforsaken door, I’ll make sure everyone understands it was LUCK. That imaginary successful me is no more talented, passionate, or important than any struggling artist. Failure has (almost) nothing to do with you. You may have been born in the wrong time or place or class. You didn’t have the look- or the luck.

And I promise, if I ever DO crash through that fucking door, I will do my best to ensure others are heard, and speak for those who never had the chance to speak for themselves. I will endeavour to tell real stories, I will remember the forgotten and celebrate the unsung. I will do with my success what every writer should: help others succeed, too.

Hell, I’ll do that even in failure. Like writing, it’s all I can do.

Here’s hoping.

L&F is still available online at indigo.ca and there’s a few copies left in some #YEG stores (St. Albert, Sherwood Park, North Town Centre, Southpoint) 

because… 

we are 

sold out 

EVERYWHERE ELSE! 

THANK YOU. EVERYONE.

I can’t tell you what this means to me. 

Oh, wait. 

I can. 

I know I’ve been all happy-shiny with these posts but 2024 was one of the worst years of my life. Already mourning the loss of one cat, I suddenly lost another. I had to leave a toxic (but much loved) partner AND a toxic (but much loved) job. Money has been nothing short of impossible, and my mental health’s been worse. I’ve gained weight, lost confidence. (As if I had any to begin with!) I’ve felt trapped and humiliated living at my parents’ place, and equally embarrassed about still not having my license. Thought I paid off my Alberta Student Loan only to be dinged with another random thousand dollar charge I can’t pay. Thought I finally got income support only to (probably) lose out on my January payments thanks to late mail. A gorgeous green space next to my home (the only substantial free-use green space in my community) was pulverized to make way for apartment buildings. My (now ex) bandmate refused to release an album worth of songs because of an argument. A popular local bookstore refused to order Losers and Freaks just as they had with my first release, demanding consignment only. Again. 

(Not to mention longCovid, including being sick for my book party, AND getting a brand new dog bite scar on my face!)

You really start to wonder… 

Will it ever get easier? 

Does it matter? 

Should I even try? 

Indigo/Chapters stocking this book (and No Actual Sin being accepted into Fringe 2025) were two tiny beams of light in a dark, dark time. 

I hope my art can be a light for others. Especially if their hearts get as dark as mine. 

Otherwise, this REALLY ain’t worth it. 

I’d love to be that happy-shiny face all the time. I’d love to tell you, “It gets better!” But… honestly? It hasn’t for me.

Not yet.

I really hope it will.

And I hope it will for you, too. 

Right now, hope is all I have. 

Believe me when I say: when you buy a book, you give me a reason to be here. 

If you haven’t bought a copy yet, please do so! 

If you HAVE bought a copy from Indigo/Chapters, again, thank you. ❤ 

I’ll keep y’all posted. This should be enough sales that Indigo/Chapters will stock Losers and Freaks in stores across Canada. 

Hopefully. 

Love,

C

cehoffman.net

Losers and Freaks by C.E. Hoffman

IT’S HAPPENING! (Losers and Freaks)

Friends, fam!

Readers, fans!

Thanks for being here!

I am delighted to announce that Losers and Freaks is officially available for sale at Indigo/Chapters, both online, and IN-STORE in Edmonton, AB!

Losers and Freaks is currently available at the following Edmonton locations:

Indigo West Edmonton Mall
Chapters Westside
Indigo Kingsway
Chapters Southpoint
Indigo South Common
Indigo North Town Centre
Chapters St Albert
Indigo Sherwood Park

Should be in the Fantasy section under H!

Remember: Indigo will be watching sales online and in-store for roughly two months, so make sure to get a copy now! If sales go well, they will stock Losers and Freaks in stores throughout Canada!!!!!

If you’re in Edmonton, please visit Indigo/Chapters irl to snag your copy at one of the above locations.

If you’re outside Edmonton, please order online.

Already have a copy? Buy one for a friend, a Secret Santa, a book club, your local free library, or for donating to Goodwill or a Books-to-Prisoners program!

There are so many ways to give this season.

Give someone the gift of feeling less alone.

And give me the gift of reaching the people I long to reach!

All good things,

C.E. Hoffman

cehoffman.net