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oiranSo, hello. I'm still here, sometimes.
storytelling: I never realized how much of a damper it was putting on my writing progress to know that anything I might complete with the intent of trying to get it published by a "big" house would be so heavily edited and cut that I might not even recognize it at the end. I know some people can reconcile themselves to this (and occasionally with admirable skill and great success as a result of the changes), but apparently I cannot. It's not editing that worries me--editing is part of writing--but rather the prospect of seeing my work neutered due to prudery or, more likely, concerns about how sexually explicit will fare in the market and/or reflect on the publisher. It's made it nearly impossible to get any words on paper (well, screen in most cases) when I am already dreading the prospect of changing them to something else, something I never meant, to please someone who wants me to tell a different story entirely. I like writing sex, and I especially like writing sex that is 100% fantasy, i.e., m/m sex. No matter how well I approximate an experience (and I apparently can do quite well in this regard), I'm still just talking out my ear. Along with lipstick and high heels, wielding one's fantasy penis with great skill and menace is one of the most exquisite pleasures of being a girl.
I don't write much action in my stories, though it's something I'm trying to change, if just to see if I can do it. But usually, I just don't find it interesting to read the details of someone's body moving through space to fight a duel or climb a mountain or shift gears on a manual transmission. I can't/won't follow complex battle sequences because they are boring, at least for me, no matter how well they've been constructed. The only "action" in my stories, really, is the fucking. My philosophy about writing sex has always been that it is yet another arena for character development and hopefully that shows at least some of the time. If I fear that my scenes will be changed--cut entirely, tamed down to a dreaded fade-to-black, or gender-normalized to a m/f couple--then I can't help thinking...what's the point? If there were big, bold action as the true focus, then perhaps I wouldn't mind compromising on the sex so much, but the sex is really all I've got.
So, there you go. I admit it. I believe that my potential greatest contribution to contemporary literature involves the brazen exercise of a sexual bravado that I am physically incapable of demonstrating in my real life (and for this you all ought to be grateful). Or, you know, to make it short and sweet: Porn. I can do porn.
Well, last week I got a nice surprise. I've been solicited to write what I believe I write best for a small publishing company that specializes in such things, i.e., real books printed on paper, full of m/m fantasy smut. The deal isn't finalized yet, but I'm not anticipating any major obstacles. Even better, this has served as a very clear reminder that there are options, though usually one must go looking for them. Thankfully for my lazy, pessimistic ass, one of them found me instead.
This has been invigorating, to say the least. So far, I have the outlines for five books (a trilogy, two stand-alones) and quite a bit of story drafted on two of those ideas: about 40 pages on one and 20 or so on another. I haven't done this much work on anything in such a short amount of time in longer than I can remember. These are, of course, in addition to the three "serious" book ideas that I've been tormenting myself with for the past several years. Those are backburnered for the moment for both my sanity and, um, theirs...?
In the event that I do sign on, be assured that at some point I will shamelessly invite you to buy my book.
retro red: And in other news, I have been very successfully doing my own foils for a few months now. I've been dying my hair off and on for well over 20 years and I've never before had any color mishaps. However, a couple weeks ago I streaked and dyed my hair what was supposed to be a very vivid but natural "intense red." Instead of the electric tomato soup color I was hoping for, this turned out a clear, bright, crayola red verging on magenta. It's pretty, but. If this had happened 20 years ago, I would have been ecstatic. However, this is now and, while I enjoy looking younger than my years I absolutely don't want to look as though I'm trying to look younger, and I fear this definitely gives such an impression. I haven't decided what, if anything, to do about it yet. Interestingly, strangers like it, but people who know me are less enthusiastic. I think this is a good sign that it is simply the wrong color at the very wrong time.
bitch: Oh, yeah. We have decided to keep the dog I "rescued." Lula gained 20 lb. and several inches in height in ~2 months, but she seems to have stopped growing and is at a reasonable Labrador-type size, though recently her paws have gotten bigger, which might mean the rest of her is gearing up for it, too. Like me, she has a huge head and long legs and tends to knock things over in her enthusiasm. Unlike me--for which I am grateful--she farts all the time, related mostly, I believe, to her unsanctioned eating choices, i.e., rope, pieces of tennis ball, pieces of garden hose, cuttlebone, peanut shells, nibbles of shoes, etc. She's a pretty girl, though quite a bruiser. The Mr. has suddenly started calling Jones "she" every now and then, apparently because he is the dainty one.
She and Jones love to play and tend to bring out the worst in each other. Or, rather, the worst in Jones, who is proving to be kind of an asshole, as well as too competitive to just let fun happen. Of the good, though, since Lula will eat anything Jones has had to start being less picky in order to keep the treat situation balanced. Now they both beg for baby carrots and broccoli, though Jones still doesn't understand why anyone would eat an apple.
How've y'all been, anyway?
storytelling: I never realized how much of a damper it was putting on my writing progress to know that anything I might complete with the intent of trying to get it published by a "big" house would be so heavily edited and cut that I might not even recognize it at the end. I know some people can reconcile themselves to this (and occasionally with admirable skill and great success as a result of the changes), but apparently I cannot. It's not editing that worries me--editing is part of writing--but rather the prospect of seeing my work neutered due to prudery or, more likely, concerns about how sexually explicit will fare in the market and/or reflect on the publisher. It's made it nearly impossible to get any words on paper (well, screen in most cases) when I am already dreading the prospect of changing them to something else, something I never meant, to please someone who wants me to tell a different story entirely. I like writing sex, and I especially like writing sex that is 100% fantasy, i.e., m/m sex. No matter how well I approximate an experience (and I apparently can do quite well in this regard), I'm still just talking out my ear. Along with lipstick and high heels, wielding one's fantasy penis with great skill and menace is one of the most exquisite pleasures of being a girl.
I don't write much action in my stories, though it's something I'm trying to change, if just to see if I can do it. But usually, I just don't find it interesting to read the details of someone's body moving through space to fight a duel or climb a mountain or shift gears on a manual transmission. I can't/won't follow complex battle sequences because they are boring, at least for me, no matter how well they've been constructed. The only "action" in my stories, really, is the fucking. My philosophy about writing sex has always been that it is yet another arena for character development and hopefully that shows at least some of the time. If I fear that my scenes will be changed--cut entirely, tamed down to a dreaded fade-to-black, or gender-normalized to a m/f couple--then I can't help thinking...what's the point? If there were big, bold action as the true focus, then perhaps I wouldn't mind compromising on the sex so much, but the sex is really all I've got.
So, there you go. I admit it. I believe that my potential greatest contribution to contemporary literature involves the brazen exercise of a sexual bravado that I am physically incapable of demonstrating in my real life (and for this you all ought to be grateful). Or, you know, to make it short and sweet: Porn. I can do porn.
Well, last week I got a nice surprise. I've been solicited to write what I believe I write best for a small publishing company that specializes in such things, i.e., real books printed on paper, full of m/m fantasy smut. The deal isn't finalized yet, but I'm not anticipating any major obstacles. Even better, this has served as a very clear reminder that there are options, though usually one must go looking for them. Thankfully for my lazy, pessimistic ass, one of them found me instead.
This has been invigorating, to say the least. So far, I have the outlines for five books (a trilogy, two stand-alones) and quite a bit of story drafted on two of those ideas: about 40 pages on one and 20 or so on another. I haven't done this much work on anything in such a short amount of time in longer than I can remember. These are, of course, in addition to the three "serious" book ideas that I've been tormenting myself with for the past several years. Those are backburnered for the moment for both my sanity and, um, theirs...?
In the event that I do sign on, be assured that at some point I will shamelessly invite you to buy my book.
retro red: And in other news, I have been very successfully doing my own foils for a few months now. I've been dying my hair off and on for well over 20 years and I've never before had any color mishaps. However, a couple weeks ago I streaked and dyed my hair what was supposed to be a very vivid but natural "intense red." Instead of the electric tomato soup color I was hoping for, this turned out a clear, bright, crayola red verging on magenta. It's pretty, but. If this had happened 20 years ago, I would have been ecstatic. However, this is now and, while I enjoy looking younger than my years I absolutely don't want to look as though I'm trying to look younger, and I fear this definitely gives such an impression. I haven't decided what, if anything, to do about it yet. Interestingly, strangers like it, but people who know me are less enthusiastic. I think this is a good sign that it is simply the wrong color at the very wrong time.
bitch: Oh, yeah. We have decided to keep the dog I "rescued." Lula gained 20 lb. and several inches in height in ~2 months, but she seems to have stopped growing and is at a reasonable Labrador-type size, though recently her paws have gotten bigger, which might mean the rest of her is gearing up for it, too. Like me, she has a huge head and long legs and tends to knock things over in her enthusiasm. Unlike me--for which I am grateful--she farts all the time, related mostly, I believe, to her unsanctioned eating choices, i.e., rope, pieces of tennis ball, pieces of garden hose, cuttlebone, peanut shells, nibbles of shoes, etc. She's a pretty girl, though quite a bruiser. The Mr. has suddenly started calling Jones "she" every now and then, apparently because he is the dainty one.
She and Jones love to play and tend to bring out the worst in each other. Or, rather, the worst in Jones, who is proving to be kind of an asshole, as well as too competitive to just let fun happen. Of the good, though, since Lula will eat anything Jones has had to start being less picky in order to keep the treat situation balanced. Now they both beg for baby carrots and broccoli, though Jones still doesn't understand why anyone would eat an apple.
How've y'all been, anyway?
