Blizzard

Though there's only about an inch of snow outside, daylight is almost gone and the wind's picking up. We're supposed to have a blizzard tonight. I like weather. Like to be reminded that there are forces that I have  no control over. The power may go out. But we have candles and wood for the woodstove and plenty of food. We have books and blankets. There are always things to do when the lights go out. 

I always get kinda turned on when it's stormy. Not sure why. The weather prognosticators always are shouting "danger danger." But I think I like being thrown back into a world where nothing is there at the flip of a switch. I feel "at home." Think I may write a bit this evening. And I'm looking forward to snuggling under blankets. 

Merry XXXmas

Earlier this week I went down to Philly for the Erotic Literary Salon where Emerald was the featured reader. It was great fun, and Susana Mayer, the  creator of the salon, had put out a challenge for folks to write naughty holiday haikus. My friend Kam tried his hand at some, even though he was traveling and couldn't be there. Susana read them and the audience sure seemed to like them. He said it was okay for me to post them here. So, without further ado...

Santa's pants on floor
Blankets piled in the corner
Giggles from underneath


Silky liquid runs down
Santa's elves have such long legs
Lapping up towards prize


Tight hole seldom plumbed
Santa positions with care
Plugs elf butt with glee


Soft lips suck long hard
Red cheeks bulge with excitement
She-elf smiles at boss


Santa traces breast curve
Mommy is doing more than kiss
Santa plunges deep


Santa watches you
Good girls know how to please lovers
Santa joins in now

It was two years ago today...

when I started this here blog.

Today, I've spend most of my time writing a piece of erotica. It's actually been awhile since I have. And that it came back today is pretty fucking cool.

These past couple of years have been quite the wild ride. Life-changing. I've met some very cool people and made some good friends. I've published a few stories. I've gotten naked on the internet. I've read my erotic poetry for an audience. I've shared a lot. Some people might think too much. I don't.

It's been hard work, but I'm becoming more and more comfortable in my own skin.

The coming cold.

Ice Ribbons

Today, when I drove the road to the place where I buy my local milk, I saw snow on the ground. It hadn't snowed at our house, the limit seemed to be about five miles away. It's funny, I've not been looking forward to winter this year. Some years I do. I think of snuggling under a blanket with a good book and a mug of cocoa. Slow days to make soup and knit. But I don't think this winter will be one of relaxation and catching up. 

I'm so behind in so many things, that if I start to list them, I get overwhelmed. So, I'm just going to take things one day at a time, always allowing for the spontaneous. Tomorrow I'm meeting a friend for lunch. Someone I haven't seen for way too long. And another friend may be stopping in one day this week. I like things like that. As much as I like being alone, I like being with people too. I am nothing if not contradictions.

This past year I've not updated this blog nearly as often as I  have in the past. Not sure why that is. Oh, there are plenty of reasons, but the truth of the  matter is that for awhile, I thought Eros had abandoned me. But that's not the case. Just fluctuating hormones. 

But it was scary. After all this time, a lot of it spent coming to terms with the nuances of my sexuality, it seemed particularly mean of the universe to mess with my libido just when I no longer was mired in shame. Well, maybe not mired, but it was almost always there. It felt so good to move beyond that, to be comfortable in my own skin. 

But now, I'm slowly fighting my way back. In the past couple of months, my erotic writing life has been renewed. I've been braver and braver. Thoughts are coalescing in my mind about several long term projects (including my novel-in-progress). But even when things are going well, the old demons can revisit and throw me for a loop. That happened this past week. It wasn't fun. It wasn't pretty. But, now, from the other side, I know it was good, because I'm ready to move on.

So, expect to see me writing more here. Not sure what about. Probably all sorts of shit. Whatever interests me. And, no worries, there will probably be plenty of sex-related stuff.  Today my husband said that being sex-focused was my "default" mode. Hahahaha. Yeah. I kinda like that. Hope you do too.

Shorter days, longer nights, colder temperatures. Yeah, winter may be almost here, but I think it may be a hot one.

There's a first time for everything.

Just before I left to drive down to Philadelphia for my reading at The Erotic Literary Salon (see blog post about that here), I got my very first email asking if I'd be interested in reviewing a sex for  TheirToys. The timing couldn't have been more timely. I was in a brave state of mind, and upon consulting my husband, who is amazingly supportive of my erotic endeavors (well, most of them, anyway),  I said yes. So begins this foray into Adult Toys.

Now let me explain something. Even though I write erotica (among other things), until VERY recently (say...last month?) I had never purchased or used an "official" sex toy. Wow, I  heard that shocked inhale of breath from here! Yeah, I'm from that generation that came of age long before the internet made it so easy. Thank Eros! You youngsters are so lucky.

So, November was a month of firsts for me. First erotic poetry reading, first sex toy purchase, first sex toy to review. So, after some back and forth, with me explaining my ... inexperience, I was offered three toys to choose from; a bullet vibe, and two different sets of handcuffs. Having just gotten one of those cute little vibes with my first ever purchase only a couple of weeks before, I chose the Fetish Fantasy Series Ultra Cuff Set.

Now, it may seem to be quite the leap going from no sex toys to bondage toys in the course of less than a month, but I've been perusing online catalogs for quite some time. It's just taken me a bit to finally take the plunge. We'd been intrigued with bondage for some time, but hey, we move slow.

Anyhow, on to the review. And this is gonna seem a little weird, since I'll be talking about my actual sex life in more detail than I'm used to "in public." But what the hell. I honestly believe it does no one any good to keep the topic of real sex hushed (there's a ton of fake sex in front of us all the time).

After being amused by the packaging (seen at right above), I took the cuffs out and looked at them. They looked fairly simple and not too intimidating. It would be a few days before we had the opportunity to use them (we went out-of-town for Thanksgiving). When we got around to trying them, we were a bit giggly at first, being new to this kind of thing.

They're velcro, which allows you to fit them as tight as you want, though I have small wrists and there was some loose velcro, though it didn't get in the way (any longer and it would have). They appear to be able to adjust to accommodate much larger wrists and/or ankles. They were quite comfortable. And the buckle is easy to operate (I think I might have been a little hesitant if they had actually locked - remember, I'm new at this). Now, we just attached the cuffs to each other, but you could attach them to something else, if you had the proper connectors (there's one clasp, you might need another to use the cuffs separately (say to different bed posts - which we don't have).

It was very interesting being restrained. The buckle made it quick to switch from hands together in front, to behind my back. Not being able to use my hands at all was both a turn-on and frustrating. And judging from my husband's response, despite his claims that they didn't do all that much for him, they did bring a new dynamic into our fucking. Oh, and we used the other toys I'd gotten previously. Which was nice. So I'd say our first foray into bondage was a success.

 I'm not only looking forward to using them again, but I can't wait to try them on him.

*and yes, TheirToys gave me this product free, as thanks for letting you know about their site and this product.

A tale of two readings.

Reading at the Erotic Literary Salon

touch
always
press of
skin against
skin
remember*




*from Memento Vivere




Last month I had the pleasure of reading at Philadelphia's Erotic Literary Salon with Jeremy Edwards. He was reading from his "eroto-comedic" novel, Rock My Socks Off and I  read some of my erotic poetry, which was quite a treat. Also, Emerald, who will feature there this month, read in the open mike.


This reading series, begun two years ago by Susana Mayer, is a wonderful venue, and I only wish it was closer to me, so I could go all the time (I am going to hear Emerald read on Dec. 21). Emerald and I got to meet Susana in the afternoon (both arriving at her place at the same time!) and we had some fascinating discussions. I think both Emerald and I were coveting her bookshelves. Then  Jeremy, his wife Helia, Emerald, my Philly friend Kam, and me, had a delicious dinner at a nice Indian restaurant around the corner from the venue, The Bohemian Absinthe Lounge.

The reading itself was fantastic. The open mike had wonderful poetry and erotica (check out Ricc Berra, who read an excerpt from this). I was impressed with the respectful and attentive crowd. How wonderful to have such a supportive-of-the-erotic spoken word series. Jeremy did a terrific job, as usual (I've heard him read before). If you want to watch Jeremy's reading, he has links posted at his blog, here. If I can figure out how to do the same, I will post mine here. Stay tuned.

This was the first time I've been able to do an entire reading of my erotic poetry, including my Seattle Erotic Arts Festival poems, as well as some of the ones here. Many of the poems are ones I've done in readings and performances during the past several years. But a few of them had never been read aloud before, poems with the words "cock and cunt." Poems that speak openly of my desires.  Though I hate to use the word, because it's so overused, I found reading these poems before an audience to be very empowering. The audience's reaction to my poems really touched me. I know that my poems have meaning to me, because I write my heart out, but several audience members came up to me afterwards and commented that they were moved by my words. That's heady stuff for a writer to hear.

Afterwards, I celebrated by sharing an absinthe with Helia, who was also eager to try it. Needless to say, I liked it. The whole ritual of the sugar cube and the ice water, the clouding of the liquor itself, well, I guess I'll have to write a poem!

**************

A week and a half later, I read again, this time here at home (sorta, about an hour away). I'd been debating whether or not to read one of my SEAF poems in addition to a few other erotic poems (I always do some erotic poems in my readings, surprise surprise). It was a small crowd on a very chilly night, and in a fit of bravery, I read Memento Vivere, a poem chronicling events of my sexual life. It's a very personal poem, and it's also a challenge to read, since it's partly visual. I was a little nervous about what kind of reaction I'd get here - most of the folks in the audience knew me and while some knew about my Erobintica activities, others did not. I'm happy to report that it went well. 

I kinda find it ironic that my erotic poetry is bringing together my Erobintica self with my other writing self (maybe selves?). I'd thought to keep them separate, for various reasons, when I started out. Slowly, the lines have merged and blurred. Soon, I imagine (hope?) there will be no boundaries. That's one reason why I read under my full real name at the Erotic Literary Salon. I am proud of Erobintica. It's a name I will continue to use. But there will be no more hiding. 

Several interesting writing-related opportunities have presented themselves recently, and it's not despite my erotic writings, but because of them. There's a lesson here for me. I'm hoping I'm an attentive student.

Reading my erotic poetry in Philadelphia!

Details here

Tomorrow night, Tuesday, November 16, I will be featuring, along with Jeremy Edwards, at The Erotic Literary Salon in Philadelphia.

I'll be reading my erotic poetry, including the two poems that were finalists at this year's Seattle Erotic Art Festival's Literary Art Showcase. This will be the first time I've read them in public, and my first purely erotic poetry reading. Should be fun and interesting.

Jeremy Edwards will be reading from his book Rock Your Socks Off . I'm excited to get to hear him read this and add his physical voice to his wonderful writing voice. I just have to remember to bring my copy to get it signed!

NaNaNaNa

Though I'm not particularly thrilled that it's November already (where did this year go?), I am glad that it's here. Because so many people I know are doing NaNoWriMo and since I've been dragging my feet (and knuckles and ass) on the novel that I started last year, I'm going to use the whole peer pressure thing to get me working on mine. I'm not doing it officially since I'm not starting a new one, I'm working on the old one (I have worked on it since last year, hahaha). So, I'm committing to working on it every single day in November, be it for 15 minutes or 5 hours. I've done no preparation whatsoever. And I guess later today I'll post here how many words I wrote. I'm sure it won't be done by the end of the month, but it will be closer.

Why is it...?

Why is it that whenever something slightly good happens to me, that I recoil and go to such a deep, dark, negative place, I end up thinking everyone is making fun of me and hating me? I wrote a poem recently sorta about this. I've been editing it. It's not done. But this is the original, raw version.

Through Myself Darkly


When you reflect my doubts,
I wish you would turn the mirror
of my self-hatred away,
instead, let me see in the looking glass 
of your eyes, what it is in me
that you love and cherish, 
despite, or maybe even because of,
my many blemishes.

I am my own worst enemy. If anyone is going to destroy me, it will be me, myself, and I. Some good things have happened to me lately in regard to my writing. And I'm going to list them here, despite all the angry voices in my head telling me that doing so is bad, wrong, self-centered, and maybe worst of all, futile. So here's some public bloodletting.

In no particular or chronologic order, and with commentary:

~ Last month I gave a poetry reading. I was one of four poets on the program. By luck of last name, I went last. It went well. I guess. People said nice things. See, there's this thing inside me that gets angry whenever I "brag." I have a hunch that it comes from places back in my childhood, and they're not all sun-shiny and pretty.

~ I sent someone my self-published chapbook (right now I'm not sure why), and she said "These are fabulous, Robin! I love their simplicity and their depth." I've never met her, I have no reason to believe she'd be "just saying that." Where does that voice come from? "Just saying that."

~ While writing this, just now, a friend wrote back to me, in response to some of my typical self-tortured musings; "I don't know what you need to do, and at this point in my life, I wouldn't presume to even suggest a course of action (since I'd almost certainly be wrong), but there probably is something that you should be doing. For all I know it might be misunderstanding friends, getting upset, and then finding out that your friends love and respect you after all, despite any doubts and self-recriminations on your part. If that's true, you are doing exactly the right thing (and who is to say you're not?). Sometimes I wonder why I have such good friends.

~ Yesterday, Emerald had something very nice to say about one of my poems. I was kinda flabbergasted. Why? Oh, I can be gracious about accepting praise, on the outside, but inside something wants to deflate any sense of "wow, I did that!" (or I wrote that). Interesting. Yeah, a bit of self-therapy here.

~ I was asked to co-feature with Jeremy Edwards at the Erotic Literary Salon in Philadelphia on Nov. 16.  He announced it on his blog. I knew I was wanting to hear him read from his new book and I thought it would be fun to get on the open mike list. That's all. And while I'm thrilled I finally get to read  some poems I don't have the nerve to read locally, I also feel bad that I will be taking time away from what would have been just Jeremy's feature.

~ In November I have another reading that I'm doing. That makes two in one month. Why do I think that's "wrong?" I should be proud and excited and all that, right? And I am. That's the thing. The little-kid excitement is there right along with the grown-up admonition to "get over it."

A couple of times recently people have mentioned that they haven't seen me wear my Fuck Shame necklace lately. And yeah, they're right. Because lately I think I've let the shame get an upper hand. Maybe because of all the changes I'm going through, I've been doing a lot of self-examination, and I don't always like what I see. I'm selfish and self-centered much of the time. At least it seems that way to me. And so the spiral begins.

I do this. All the time. This bungeeing, this spiraling. I think I've mentioned it before when I did something that I still sometimes am surprised I did. Should I be proud of that? Ashamed? Neutral? All of the above? I don't know.

Last weekend I was looking at some pictures with a friend, pictures that are up on Facebook. In one, taken a couple of years ago, there are two friends who are no longer with us. And it is because of the tangle of emotions I have around their absence that I keep going, despite everything in me that says "stop writing and be a regular person."

Early this morning in an email to someone who I misunderstood, I wrote "We all write because we like picking scabs. That's all it is. Some of us are better at it than others, that's all." And in the course of the morning, through many tears, I realized, that is my truth. I pick scabs. Because somehow I believe that if I can get deep enough, I can somehow get to new, unblemished skin.

From the ether of my mind's eye

comes something solid and touchable. Life has been taking a crazy, twisty-turny path these days. But there is a destination.

Naughty Librarian strikes again.

A post from the group blog that I contribute to :  Naughty Librarian @ We Who Are About To Die.

Pondering

Lately, I've been having a great deal of difficulty finding my direction. Maybe it's because I find myself at some critical junctions of my life all at once and I cannot prioritize them. So, I start spinning. One minute I want to hide under a rock, not saying a peep. The next I want to get out there and try to change the world. Most of the time I'm somewhere in between, going round and round. But I've decided to write about it.

I'm going through  menopause, which doesn't help with stability at all, and the effect on my libido (where has it gone????) has, in turn, made writing erotica difficult, to say the least. I've always been the girl with the one-track-mind. To have that suddenly (because is sure as fuck feels sudden) change is hard to deal with. I'm hoping that once everything has settled down, I'll find my way again. In the meantime, the loss (temporarily I hope) of an important part of my self can be depressing. But I'm not going to just give up (though often I want to and even threaten to - sorry dear husband). 

Though I believe a mother's "job" is  never done with her children, mine are all pretty much over needing me day-in, day-out. Yes, I've been a stay-at-home mom, even making lunches for my high school children. It's what I need to do. But soon my youngest will be done with high school and moving on to college (and he's having his own "what will I do with my life?" crisis thoughts). My oldest is married. The middle child is studying on the other side of the world (Japan) and I won't see her again until next July. My identity as a mother is shifting. Soon, my time will be more my own than it has been in more than a quarter-century. The last time I had this kind of freedom was when I was in my early twenties. Oh to know then what I know now. But I don't wish to go back. 

With this change in focus comes the need to think about what I'm going to do from here on. I want to write, and will be able to (hopefully) devote more time to it. But I often have crippling self-doubt episodes which pretty much paralyze me. I should be doing something "real." Wanting to just sit and write is "selfish" and a waste of time (because it will  never amount to much). I know where these thoughts come from - they've been passed down generation-to-generation. And THAT is what makes me want to keep at it, to not give up, to break the cycle. Wish me luck.

With all this comes, looming on the horizon, moving our lives. We've been where we are, in this town, for just about 18 years. In this house for almost 17 years. Longer than anywhere either me or my husband has ever lived in one place or one house. We'll be moving to Maine, though when we don't know. But I find myself already mentally separating from this place. This house, this street, this town, this state. The crashed economy has made us change all our plans (aka dreams). We'd hoped to move into "something" up there when our son went off to college. That's not likely to happen. Next year my little writing cabin should be done, but I don't think even we could live together in a 10 x 12 one-room cabin for very long. But we need to get up there somehow. So I find myself in a sort of limbo, being one place and wanting to be another. This will be the first time in my life where a move was a conscious decision to move to someplace. Always moves have been because of the decisions of others (parents, husband) in reaction to jobs or house purchases. Most often it's been moving from. This will be different. Already is. 

Life is strange. Maybe I'll start writing here more. I'd sorta wanted to keep this blog more erotic-oriented, but then I realized, it wouldn't be whole. This is my writing "home" and so there will probably be a change in tone. Maybe not though. Who knows?

At cross purposes.

Here's another one of my sorta kinda book reviews, posted over at We Who Are About To Die, where I post once in awhile (I'm the "Naughty Librarian"). It's of Jonathan Franzen's Freedom.

Another Maine Respite

Happy Belated B-day to Danielle!

This here is a belated birthday wish for the always-thoughtful Danielle de Santiago. He's not particularly fond of celebrating it, but those of us blogland friends like ANY excuse to party and eat cake (real or virtual), and so, whether he likes it or not, he's getting HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!! wishes from near and far.

So, hope it was a good one and the best is yet to come!

(that is a homemade Black Forest Cake)

Pretty Travel Pictures: Kubota Garden in Seattle

Quiet time

My life is going through a lot of changes these days. My oldest daughter got married. My other daughter is preparing to leave the country for close to a year. My son is getting ready to enter his final year of high school. I'm going through menopause (which sure has had an unfortunate influence on my erotica writing). Friendships are shifting and changing. What I do from day-to-day is shifting and changing. I'm not sure how I want to spend my time. There are lots of things that I "think" I  need to do ... because it's expected of me ... or I expect it of myself ... or I think others expect it. Many of those things are things that I want to do. I can keep myself plenty busy with all sorts of activities. But constant motion cuts me off from a lot. I realized that this past weekend up in Maine. My husband and I went up there, not to "work," but to relax (and maybe get some work done). I had a very hard time relaxing. Just being. I felt like I had to constantly be doing "something" even though deep down inside I didn't want to do any of it.

Maybe it's my age. Time is flying by. It's already half-way through August. It just was August, last year August, not too long ago. A lot has happened in that span of time. And nothing has really happened.

I woke from a dream this morning. I was going somewhere, walking along some sort of canyon. Red dirt. Dry. I wasn't alone, there were other people traveling with me. At one point someone wanted to show me something on a television. So I slid down the embankment, trying not to sink in the mud, to get to the television. What was on it was me, walking somewhere with other people. But I was younger, thinner, and I realized that I could never go back to that time. And it made me sad. Now that I have the awareness and knowledge to "make the most" of life, I no longer have the physical ability. Oh, I'm not old and decrepit, but I'm sure not a spring chicken anymore. And sometimes that hits a lot harder than other times. Right now I'm trying to pick myself up and dust myself off from this latest collision.

So, I'm not sure how much I'll be writing here. Oh, I will be, there are things I've committed to doing for here, but for the most part, until I figure stuff out, I don't want to be posting my tortured ramblings here.

Built for Speed: Fast Girls

I've always admired "fast girls." Secretly, or not so secretly, wanted to be one. One of "those" girls.  Fast Girls, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel, is filled with stories about "the girl with a reputation, the girl who goes all the way, and the girl who goes after what she wants–and gets it!" 

Did anyone reading this ever look longingly at the prim and proper good girl and think to ourselves "I want to be her?" Noooooooooo. Well, at least I didn't. I wanted to be the girl in the boots with the skirt up to there and the neckline down to here with all eyes glued to her. Her ass, her legs, her breasts, her hair, all of her. Ha! Did I just say that???? Yeah, I did. Sometimes I am that girl (despite being old enough to be her mother). Because, as it says in the introduction to this anthology: "Fast is a (sexy) state of mind." 

Isn't it true? It's more a state of mind than anything else.

One of the things that I really like about the stories in this anthology is that the women/"girls" in these stories are not all amazingly superslutwomen. They're human. They have their insecurities. They don't know-it-all. And they're not necessarily fast in the traditional sense of "promiscuous" but more as in holding fast to their desire. 

And to tell you the truth, I'm not finished with the book. I've been savoring the stories, not plowing through them like fast food. I like the diversity of story-lines. I'm about half-way, getting ready to start "Confessions of a Kinky Shopaholic" by Jennifer Peters. A great title by the way. So far I've liked all the stories I've read, and I'm pretty sure I'll like the rest. That's how this collection seems to be. The Table of Contents and Introduction can be found here, at the Fast Girls blog.

So, how fast are you? If you are brave enough, in the comments, let us know just how fast you are, or have been in the past. Time to 'fess up. And if you wrote one of the stories in the collection, maybe tell us what you like about your "fast girl."

Also, Rachel says that she named the book after a song called "Fast Girls" by a band called Sarge. Here's one of my favorite "fast girl" songs, Stray Cats "Built for Speed."   What's yours?

Coming Tomorrow

 Wednesday I'm one of the stops on the Fast Girls blog tour, so stop by tomorrow!

Thursday Turn-on: Longing

Mr. E has been out-of-town for a week. Gets damn lonely. We're not phone-sex/chat types. No, our calls are usually the fill-ya-in-on-mundane-stuff kind. Or not mundane as the case may be. We don't gush our longing on the phone, but it's there. We can hear it in each other's voices. I'll be picking him up at the airport tomorrow. I'm missing him.

Thursday Turn-on: Poetry

Last week I was out-of-town and didn't get to do a Thursday Turn-on, at least not here on my blog. ;-)

Today I finally got around to doing something I'd meant to for some time; I downloaded my finalist poems from the 2010 Seattle Erotic Art Festival Literary Art Showcase. People had asked for me to post them here, but due to formatting, that just wasn't possible in a regular post. So I downloaded them to Scribd. It took me all of a few minutes. Blush. Better late than never, right?

So, without further ado, here are my poems, I Want to Watch Us, and Memento Vivere.

Let the feasting begin! Eat Me: Seven Stories of Gluttony is out!

Just got word that Eat Me: Seven Stories of Gluttony from MindFuck Fiction is now available as a gorgeous e-book (soon to be on Kindle) for only $3.95.!  I'm so excited because...

ONE OF MY STORIES IS IN IT!!!   Sorry for shouting, but gollygeewhiz, I'm fucking ecstatic! Oh, the name of the story is "Temperance's First Orgy."

Here's a bit from the website:

Don't miss this chance to delight your senses with stories from the delectable crew of Gina Marie, Heidi Champa, Daisy James, Erobintica, Dorla Moorehouse, Connor Wright and Kaysee Renee Robichaud. Within these pages, you'll be invited to feast on the gorgeous prose and sensual actions of characters who howl at the hunger moon, eat fish--and more--on Fridays, gorge on gorgeous men at the train depot, and lick their frosted fingers every chance they get...

 Enjoy the feast!

Monday morning contemplation

Photo by Randy Lagana

This morning I read something that really struck a chord with me. Donna George Storey posted a piece last week called Sex as Performance not Commodity on her blog, Sex, Food, and Writing, that she wrote after reading an essay by Thomas MacCaulay Millar, "Toward a Performance Model of Sex." If you have time, go read Donna's piece right now before reading on.

Towards the end, Donna writes:"...I'd bet that any real woman with a few more years/decades on her would attest that the subjective experience of sex for women only gets richer with experience and a surer sense of one's preferences and power. And the more nuanced our experience of sex, the more we can convey that complexity in our fiction."

Though I've always wanted to be a writer, it's only in the last half-dozen years or so that I've taken myself seriously as a writer (well, most of the time, I'm still overcome by doubt way too often). And it's only in the past couple of years that I've taken to allowing myself to explore sexuality in my writing to the degree I have, and I still have trouble with it. And I'm having trouble writing this post, maybe because I'm still pondering.

It seems that whenever we think we have a thing figured out, something happens to show us we don't. We're always learning. Sometimes those "learning" experiences knock us for a loop. And until we regain our footing, we're not sure what's up and what's down.

As a writer, I bring my experiences to my writing, even if I'm not writing about ME. But when one has self-image issues (umm, duh), that can translate into questioning the value of one's writing. If I'm no good, then my writing can't be any good. It happens to the best of us.

Why do we write? Why do we write about sex? What are we trying to accomplish? Are we just pervs? Is this line of thought going anywhere?

Probably not.

Thursday Turn-on: Wind

It was many years ago, before our first child was even a twinkle. We were visiting my parents. It was California. Winter. A wild, Pacific storm had settled over the San Francisco Bay Area. Rain was tossed at windows, tree limbs shook. Somewhere, one must have cracked, fallen on a power line. The lights went out. The television went dark. The house stopped humming. It was late enough in the evening that everyone just went to bed. I undressed, then in just my bra and cotton bikini underpants, drawn by the howling outside, went to the bedroom window, pulled back the curtain. Outside, everything glistened, ambient light reflecting off clouds. The pine tree in the neighbor's yard thrashed against the sky, sending clouds of needles onto my parent's covered-for-the-winter pool. I was turned on. Wind does that to me. My husband came up behind me and slowly slid his hands from the sides of my waist over my bare belly. I can still remember the exquisiteness of that moment. I can close my eyes, think of it, and feel the rush and the gathering moistness. Even now, as I type this.

Oh! I just remembered this. It's one of the first 45s I ever bought!

Should I let it in?

A while back, I started working on a novel. It's not the first one, but the other had been set aside because I just wasn't in a place where I wanted to work on it. When I started this latest one, I went whole hog for awhile and even shared the first few chapters with various people (and got positive feedback). Then I set this one aside too. Not consciously, but in avoidance of the emotions that I knew it would make me experience in the writing. Basically I locked it out of my room. Bad novel! Get out!

So I went back to working on short stories and my beloved poetry. But now that novel is scratching at the door. And I'm afraid to let it in. Especially right now. There's a lot going on in my life, some of it not too pleasant. I don't have time to write a novel.

What am I afraid of? I'm afraid I might use it to avoid life. Real life. I'm afraid that it will seem, to me at least, that I'm abandoning my other writing (though truth be told, I've not been working on that all that diligently either). That I'll no longer write short stories just as some I've already written are about to be published. That I won't work on poetry just as I'm started to find my voice and confidence in it.

But that novel is whining, making whimpering noises, "Come on, write me, you know you want to, look at my cute belly, don't you want to rub it? Go ahead, scratch behind my ears."

This morning my husband forwarded a press release he received (one that has no bearing on his work, which he always finds funny) about a woman who in her mid-forties wrote her first novel, sold it, and went on to become a bestselling novelist. It had always been her dream to write a novel (same here). And she is living her dream. And encourages others to do the same, and that's basically what her novels are about. She herself calls them "beach reads." (Note: I'm not listing her name here because I'm not sure she'd want to be linked on the internet to erotica. If you're really interested and want to know who, just email me, my addy's in my profile.)

I need all the encouragement I can get right now.

He sent it to me after listening to me being self-pitying and saying that maybe I should give all this up (my dream of being a "real" full-time writer) and go work in a grocery store scanning stuff that other people can afford to buy.

Yeah, I'm having "one of those days/weeks/months/years." But, I can hear it panting under the door. "Please."

Do I let it in and risk being taken in by its puppy eyes? The way it licks my hand and curls up at my feet?

Hell, I'm a cat person, not a dog person. Why do I think of this novel-writing thing as a puppy?

Thursday Turn-on

The other day, Danielle commented  "hm..i d like to read about the things that inspire you.."the every day" erotik moments that slip in your head and grow into stories..."

So that gave me an idea. The Thursday Turn-on. Though I only have a few minutes left to get this done on a Thursday, I wanted to start today. On Thursdays, I'll post about some turn-on of mine. Something that gets my juices, creative and/or otherwise, flowing.

This morning I was reading the comics in our local newspaper. And this Zits comic just kinda turned me to mush as I ate my breakfast.

I like kissing. A lot. There's just something about lips, on other lips, on skin, on whatever. And give me a good movie kiss, and you might just have me squirming in my seat. 

And yeah, kissing figures in my stories. Maybe tomorrow I'll have time to find some snippets and I'll post them. In the meantime...

So, what do you want to read about?

Lately I've been having trouble coming up with ideas of what to write about here.

I'm behind in some of the stuff that I would write about here, like reviews and stuff, though I will get to those, I PROMISE! If you could only see my room, you'd understand.

So, I was thinking of just writing about different topics, let myself think out loud. I do like getting into a subject, researching a bit, thinking about it, and then just writing. But what about? 

That's where you dear readers (as many or as few as you may be) come in. What would you like me to expound upon? Preferably the subject will have some erotic component. So send in your cards and letters (okay, okay, leave a comment) and GIVE ME SOME IDEAS!

NOTE: COMMENTS ARE NOT SHOWING UP FOR SOME REASON.

But I'm getting them in email notifications. My problem is I am not inspired these days.

You were expecting fireworks?

This post is not about July 4th which is today's date.
It's not about fireworks, though that's a picture of a sparkler bomb my husband made a few years ago and we will set off some "fountains" in our backyard, including a sparkler bomb (though we don't try to blow anything up with them).
I'm not sure what it's about. It's been one hell of a week/month/year/decade/lifetime.
Not sure what I'm going to do today. As soon as I post this I'll go take a walk, even though it's getting pretty hot out. Then I don't  know what. Some laundry, since I can only do one load a day (we have septic issues, that's part of the month hell). There's no party planned. No cookouts with friends. It'll be just like any other day around here, except for the backyard pyrotechnics.
That doesn't make me happy. But it is what it is.
Happy 4th.

Turning it on and off

This morning while I was taking my walk, sweating in the eighty degrees (it's not the heat, it's the humidity - yeah right), I was thinking, as I usually do. Lots of varied thoughts ran through my head, including ideas for stories and poems. Which has not happened lately.

At times I think that it would be nice to be able to just turn on my writer's mind with the flick of a switch. I can't seem to do that. A lot of writers say they do that, they just "put in the time" and are able to crank stuff out. It's not because I only wait for inspiration (well, sometimes I do wait, but it never comes), but that if I set myself a schedule and say "I'm going to sit down at x o'clock and write for xyz minutes/hours," then what tends to happen is I sit there. And sit there. And sit there some more.

Oh, I've heard about various rituals that writers have to get into that space. I'll make a pot of tea or a cup of coffee or a mocha with whipped cream (a cool weather ritual). I'll clean off my desk. I'll sit in another room and put music on. None of that guarantees anything. Even my tried and not-always-true method of taking a walk often results in nary a scribble in my little notebook.

I don't usually suffer from insomnia, so there are rarely wee hours for me to spend with the blank page. Oh, I've tried getting up early and writing, but just like when I was in college, anything before 8:30 AM or so that requires the use of language, is not likely to produce any good results.

And I was thinking about all this on/off business in relation to writing, because I got an idea for a poem (while walking) that involved a realization of how I turn off other parts of my psyche. And for some reason, it's a hell-of-a-lot easier to turn them off than turn them on. Sorta like old fluorescent light bulbs. You can flip that switch and turn them off quick, plunging you into darkness. But turn them on, and they flicker and buzz and only very slowly come to life. It takes awhile. Didn't used to.

And I was wondering, is it just age? Or is something more going on?

Think I'll work on the poem.

Reality!

This past weekend, I took the first steps (actually thousands of them, more later) to making my writing cabin in the woods a reality. I don't have time to post much tonight. Maybe tomorrow night. In the meantime, if you're interested, you can go here and check out the progress. Excuse the crappiness of the photo. I forgot my camera and all I had is my not-so-good camera phone.

We had a good, though exhausting weekend and then got home after midnight (so, Monday morning) to find our septic tank had backed up. Now we're a bit poorer than we were the other day. Needless to say, my cabin will have no plumbing!

Getting Better

I'm feeling much better physically (though still not 100%).
A dilemma of sorts has been solved.
Mr. E and I are heading up to Maine tomorrow to do some more work on my writing cabin.
And... I can announce that a story of mine is included in Mind Fuck Fiction's Gluttony!

One of Mr. E's famous sparkler bombs to the right.

Some quietness

It's evening. The birds are settling down, no longer busy in the mulberry outside my window. It's rained a bit today and the sun never came out, so everything is damp, dripping. A crow calls from far off, probably heading to the rookery. It's cool, but humid. Later the fireflies will come out. They've been beautiful lately, making the trees glitter. For now, I'm quiet. Contemplating what my heart can hold.

Not sure what this is about

This is not the post I started out writing. A couple of days ago I pulled out this picture of me, taken 30 years ago (hence the huge plastic glass frames) when I was 22 years old. I was going to write about self-image, about how I look at this picture and see someone different than I saw myself then. Back when this picture was taken, I thought I was fat. I did not consider myself attractive at all. I was still living at home when this picture was taken, sometime in the Spring. At the time I was finishing up college, working part time, about to buy my first car, an old VW bus, involved with two men (neither who loved me), one of which would eventually lead me to the man I would marry. It would prove to be an important year. But when I look at this picture, all I feel is sadness.

Sadness because even though 30 years has passed, I feel just as foolish as I did then. That girl there, she still rules a large chunk of my life. And sometimes I feel like she hasn't learned anything at all in the decades that followed.

I've never really understood what anybody sees in me. What makes me worth the trouble of being my friend. Yeah, this is self-pity. I hate it. And I must be crazy because I'm doing this publicly. And I don't know why.

I'll probably keep adding to this post, or not, or who knows what. It's all a work in progress.

Addenda: I've still got this horrid upper respiratory crud and it's drained a lot out of me. Hence no new blog post here, but I did do one at WWAATD. "A possibly too-revealing reading pile".

If you've nothing better to do

Here is a link to 705 photos from the 2010 Seattle Erotic Art Festival.  (I've only made it through 5 of the 45 pages, but I vow to make it all the way to the end.)

When it rains it fucking pours, again

When I started typing the title of this blog post, apparently I'd used it before. Oh well, it still fits. Yesterday was a lousy day. Still have the chest cold (though it's not as bad), but had to deal with two rather distressing problems. One is that I had to cancel my debit card because it was used fraudulently and the other was that a reading series I manage has to move. Sometimes the real world sucks. Part of me wants to tear into a long rant here, but part of me just wants to hole-up and hide. Maybe sleep the day away. Don't worry, I'll be back at it, I always am.

Under the weather

hopefully back in a day or so - chest cold seems to be snotting up the brain.

A Weekend

Sitting here typing this up on my friend's couch after having spent a night in my hometown (sorta - this isn't the exact location - but the same metro area) - Philly. Yesterday we walked by the two houses, both in the same neighborhood, where I lived when I was little. My family moved from here to the San Francisco Bay Area when I was eight, going on nine years old. I never returned until about fifteen years ago. My husband had taken a job on the east coast and we moved our two daughters across country. My son was born after the move. One year my husband had a trade show to attend here in the Philly area and we brought the kids along and while he was busy, I drove us around and found the old sights. It's strange. Some things are familiar. But not in the way that something that you've lived with for a long time are familiar. 

Plus, so much has happened with me in those intervening fifteen years since I first returned here. I may be pondering this for days.

Not exactly pick up sticks

Straddling the "Big MF" beam

 This guy measures 9inches by 10 inches by ... 18 FEET! This is about 2/3 of the old timbers we moved this weekend. Mr. E and I. As in by ourselves. The beam above is not the longest (that honor goes to a 6"x6"x22' beam), but it is the most impressive. We inventoried all the timbers and that's what we called this one - the Big MF.

Not much time to write more - I've got to go to the dentist. I may update this later, if I feel up to it. And for those wondering, I broke ground on my writing cabin, but that's it. We needed to get these sticks moved.

Quiet for a few days

Tomorrow (Friday) morning Mr. E and I are heading up to Maine for the weekend to camp and work on our land. Hoping to get the footings dug and poured for my writing cabin. Is that too much to hope for? There is lots of other work to do too. The weather looks like it should be cooperative, though I imagine the bugs are out now. 

I'm also planning on taking some time to just sit and write. Not sure what I'll write, poems, erotica, essays, maybe some notes for my novel. I won't be taking my computer. No power, no internet, no point.  

Right now it'll be nice to be up there and have some "quiet." Yeah, there are roads and neighbors, but they're not right on top of us. And I don't feel quite as conflicted about leaving my son behind (he usually fends for himself when we go up) because his older sister is home from college (with car to go to grocery store). My only regret is it's only till Sunday. 

In the meantime, this blog will be quiet. Maybe sitting by the stream soaking its tootsies.

Insomnia

I'm writing this blog post at five thirty am. I am awake, been awake since three. This is not like me. I like my sleep. Haven't had problems sleeping for some time. The thing about being awake in the middle of the night is that I start thinking. And with nothing to distract me I usually end up stuck with one set of thoughts that run circles around me. A feedback loop.

This morning I was thinking about friends and love and all that. I was wondering why I love the people I do. It's not because of what they do or don't do, what they say or don't say. It's not even because of who they are, the type of person they are. I love them just because I love them. I think that's why my love survives. My love is not based on anything. It just is. 

I get sad sometimes. People that I love do things that make me sad, upset me, bother me, irritate me, piss me off to no end, etc. ad nauseum. And I've always worried that when (if) I let them know that something they're doing isn't going over well, that they will no longer love me. That's thinking that is so deeply ingrained, from so long ago, that I sometimes wonder if I'm stuck with it for life.

But one thing that I've been doing differently, or trying to, lately, is be true to myself. I wasn't always, in fact often wasn't. Sometimes, oftentimes, that is hard, because I know that being true to myself means not pleasing someone else. And that starts a feedback loop. 

early morning thoughts

while sky lightens

birds sing awake

clock ticks

Thinking tangled thoughts out loud

My thoughts are tangled today, they've been tangled for days. I've been doing a lot of opening up lately. For the most part it's good. Exciting. But I also find myself wanting to close up. But I seem to have misplaced my shell. When I do think of just crawling inside and hiding out, the first thought that pops into my head is "can't do that, too much to do."

Is my busyness a protective mechanism to keep me from withdrawing from the world during this "stage" of my life? It could very well be. I don't like to let people down. So I commit to things in order to not give myself a chance to back out. But the flip side of that coin is that when circumstances occur that result in me letting someone down, I can tear myself up pretty good.

Why the hell am I admitting this? Shouldn't I be trying to convince everyone how invincible I am? Ha! Excuse me while I choke on my coffee.

An Oldie but goodie

Happy Dance!

This morning I got my first post at We Who Are About To Die up! It's scary and exciting for me to do this (see yesterday's post). And I got more happy news in email last night. And it's not raining today!

And you know what's the best part? Is that I used to, when good stuff like this happened, be looking for that big ole OTHER SHOE to drop. But not today. Maybe because I'm just being myself and not trying to be something that I think other people want me to be, or expect me to be, or think I should be.

So damn excited!

Not sure why exactly I find this so exciting, but I do. I'm now going to be a contributor to the fairly new blog We Who Are About To Die! If you go to the contributors page and scroll down, you'll find me! I have no fucking clue what I'm going to contribute, but I will find stuff. I always find stuff. It'll be fun since I have such weird, eclectic tastes for a middle-aged woman. Ha!

So, I'll probably cross-post things as they happen. Kill two birds with one stone and all that. Ouch!

Oh, and the best part of all this? I'm doing it as the "whole" me. Yup. Pretty damn cool.   Oh, and that there's a sparkler bomb.

Early Monday morning thoughts

It's very quiet. I can hear the clock ticking and my computer making it's sounds. A cat is snoring somewhere. The sun is up, but the other people in the house are not. I'm drinking tea. It's cold, having gotten down to freezing overnight. It's May. Those two sentences shouldn't go together. Right now I'm glad I haven't been into gardening this year, or I'd be worrying about my little plants if I'd gotten to them earlier. Most years I wait till about now to do garden stuff anyway. This year I'm not sure how much I'll do. I'm more interested in getting my writing cabin built. Ever since April ended, with it's poem-a-day, I've not done much writing. Maybe I needed a week off. But now we're already ten days into May and I know I need to force myself into some routine, or before I know it, it'll be September.  Yeah, I'm not breaking this up which makes it hard to read. It's early and I'm just writing to write. I'm feeling old this morning. Introspective. I want to crawl back into bed and sleep more. It was late (or early depending on perspective) when I got to sleep, probably well after 1 AM. I'm not used to that. But there's lots I need to get done today. But to sleep again, that would be nice. I'm not a very driven individual. I slack off real well. Sometimes I wish I was. Other times I'm glad I'm not. I have a friend who is driven, you'd might even say obsessed. With dance, to the exclusion of just about everything else. On the one hand, I admire that. On the other, it makes me want to shout "Look at all else you're missing!" I wish I was as driven about my writing. I haven't worked on my novel for several months. Not sure why. Well, I can make all sorts of excuses, but that's all they'd be. Am I afraid of it? Or is it that I just can't seem to focus on any one activity for too long? All I know is time is moving much faster these days. It was just the new year, and winter, and there was all the time in the world. Or it seemed that way. But the months and weeks and days and hours and minutes and seconds go by and are gone. I don't know where I'm going. I just get up each day and do stuff. I definitely feel like I'm transitioning between eras of my life. I've embraced the erotic side of my being, and that feels great, but sometimes, like right now, I wish I hadn't of waited so long. I don't want to end this on a downer note. So, I think I'll get back into bed for a few minutes. Start over.

Because I'm in a mood today

The pill turns 50 today and Dr. Ruth has something to say about it. (I'm older than the pill!)




I love my children. But sometimes it seems that on "Mother's Day" that  love gets tested. That's all.

Mixed feelings

Nowadays my husband sends me blog fodder, and in this case took this picture while he was at an event for business. He saw these paddles and the saying on the middle one, and knowing me, he had to take a picture. Not that I'm into paddling. In fact, I've never been spanked since I was a kid and I get a little strange when I think about it. Which sometimes makes doing things like reviewing erotica that involves spanking or doing blog posts like last Tuesday's a bit ... hmmm, difficult isn't the word ... I guess I just get a little ... weird. It's quite complicated.

But back to these paddles. His impression was that the guy making these was serious, they were designed with corporal punishment in mind, and maybe did not know that they might be used for the very thing they were designed to discourage (Mr. E thought this because of some of the other items this guy had displayed). 

So, okay, paddles don't do anything for me. This I have discovered about myself. But, show me a leather flogger, and something happens. This came up because tomorrow we're going to one of those renfaire type of things (how I want to spend part of Mother's Day), and one of the vendors makes floggers (that's  not the vendor) and I still remember how I felt the first time I saw one at their booth years ago. And I feel a little exposed here admitting this. Hahaha. But anyhow, I doubt that hubby will buy me one tomorrow. But one of these days I want one. 

Where do things like that come from? Those visceral magnets that draw us to them from someplace deep and cob-webbed. Maybe from images from books or movies or television shows. Maybe from dreams. Who knows. 

It's been a trip and a half discovering my kinks. And I'm sure I'm not done. This is probably a lifetime journey. 

Yeah, I'm introspective today. My various selves clashing and clamoring for control. Who to be today? Mom, writer, homemaker (I have a shitload of cleaning I haven't done), gardener, cook, totally wanton slut?  Do I  have to choose?

No time like the present

Here's an old poem. It's been reworked many times over the years. Was included in a one-off chapbook that I made for my husband a couple of years ago. 

Let's just say, a habit was broken today. No picture with this one, hahaha.

Habitual

Lunchtime. They sit across

from each other. Her mind turns

towards thought of

not lunch.

He turns pages. Another how-to

book spread open before his staid

reading glasses. If only

she could somehow

turn his thoughts;

make condensation that clings to his glass

remind him of sweat  trickling down flushed skin,

chips of ice pressed between teeth bring

to mind hardened nipples,

his grilled sandwich with cheese warm and melted

would evoke soft flesh between legs.

She turns back to her meal,

he closes his book, never knows

her thoughts.