...Murder...She...Wrote...: French Handwriting in Italian (Best Erotica 2007)

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

French Handwriting in Italian (Best Erotica 2007)

French Handwriting in Italian (Best Erotica 2007)
Good news...recently Tristan Taoromino, the editor of Best Lesbian Erotica 2007 (cleis press) who published one of my short stories told me that an Italian publishing house wanted to buy the rights to my story, French Handwriting . The story will be sold to Arnoldo Mondadori Editore Publishing house in Italy for use in Best Erotica 2007. I will get 300 US dollars and they will own it for 10 years. Yay real money for Z-money! I am psyched! Finally writing pays off.

below is thee-mail I recieved:

Dear Zoe Alexandra,
Please allow me to introduce myself: my name is Rosamaria De Donatis and I work in the Rights and Acquisitions Dept of the Italian Publishing House Arnoldo Mondadori Editore. We are going to publish an anthology called "Best erotica 2007" and we would like to include your tale French Handwriting.We offer an outright fee of 300 usd, payable on the signature of the contract.Publication: within 12 monthsLicense term: 10 yearsI hope our terms meet your approval and I look forward to hearing from you.

Best wishes,
Rosamaria De Donatis

No comments:

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

All I ever wantedWas to have the skinniest thighs everOkay, and a PorscheAnd a sugar daddyAnd maybe a mansionI've never been thinI mean really thinWell I've been thinLike in a sick wayWhere you could jabYourself on my collar boneIt was jagged and sharpI could hang keys on itIf I wanted toSelfish people always love meThat's because I can give more than I can takeAnd I always love the poor onesIf they tell me I look pretty in this light or that oneSometimes I've wanted to kill myselfBut I never wouldnever wouldBecause it would give you tooMuch satisfactionTo see me choke on my neck bloodand gargle out your nameMy final syllables* *The best I can hope forIs a shot in the headA warm bedThe best I can hope forIs that I forget your nameAnd remember my ownThe best I can hope forIs that I wake up in my own bednot yoursSave the explaining for someone elseI know everything alreadyAnd what I don't knowI'll find out afterI pull all the pulp from my neckOff my list of things to doAfter I find myselfIn the laps of othersOn the floor shiveringIn a basement cryingOnce I was so fucked up I forgot the alphabetI made a promise to myself that I wouldn't black out againBut black beauties taste like absinthe andI was riding the free train to Sunset ParkAnd I was going to meet you in your bedAnd Curl up at your feet like a cat and beg you to take me backBecause I felt so lowBecause I wasn't the pretty girl you rememberedAll good stories begin and end the same wayEither you dieOr I dieBut someone has to tell the fucking storyI keep on sayingI don't want this story to endI don't want you to walk out on meTo leave this apartmentYou can play me like a violinYou know where to put your fingersAround my throatKnot them like a nooseTangle me up in allYour fucked up scenariosScratch all my records and throw themfrom the 5th story windowyou sewed up my eyeswith some fishing wireI knew you'd gut the middle partBut that's the part they throw out anywayMy stomach is hollow as a steel drumI am told I am too forwardI give people the wrong ideaI'd marry you in a heartbeatBut I'm leavingTaking a trainTo St. LouisI'm in love with a right wing politicianThere's very little truth in this worldSo really it's not about truthIt's about the times I was too fucked up to driveAnd you knew to take the wheelThe time you slipped your hands down my pantsLooked under my tongue with a flashlightAnd saw my ghostIt's never been easy being meOr anyone else for that matterIt's never been easyTo tread lightly over anyoneI am always the first to pull out the death cardI am always the first to take turns eating what's leftOf your flesh after the birds have their way with itI am the one who eats the leftoversSpoiled at the back of the refrigeratorAfter someone went out to eatSomewhere poshI've never been poshDown-home maybeI've got a few tricks left up my sleeveAnd cutsI've got cutsSometimes I cut myself on purposeSometimes they just appearAnd I don't know where they came fromSometimes I think I do it in my sleep