A odd sort of thrill

I almost gave up.

The book finder said they were there. I scanned the rack of "Fiction Anthology" in the 5th Avenue Barnes and Noble in New York City this past Saturday, but I couldn't spot any copies of Best Erotic Romance on the shelf. Best this, best that. But not BER.

It wouldn't be the first time I couldn't find a book I was looking for.

But something inside told me to look one more time. So I methodically, with neck craned sideways, scanned the entire bookshelf. Then, toward the bottom, there it was! Turns out they were arranged alphabetically according to the Editor's name. Kristina Wright.

It is an an odd feeling, the good kind of odd, odd meaning out of the ordinary, not everyday, not taken for granted, to pull a book off a bookstore shelf and know that your words are inside.

This is not the first time I've been published. Not the first time I've been in print. Not the first book I've held and turned to my words. But this IS the first time I've seen a book I'm in on a shelf in a bookstore.

Luckily, I was not alone, but with friends, so I was able to literally bounce over to where they were standing and jump up and down and squeal with delight (I honestly don't remember what I said) and turn to the Table of Contents and then to the page (179) that my story is on  and then to the bios. I turned a bit too fast for my friends, LOL.

It was nice to be able to share that moment. If I had of been by myself, I would have been just as thrilled, but I wouldn't have been able to share it. I would have been jumping up and down inside, all the while just standing there. So thank you Kam, Charlie, Stacey, and Tim for being there. And thanks Stacey for taking this picture after I'd bought a copy, even though I know my contributor's copy is probably on it's way.

A taste from my Best Erotic Romance story

Best Erotic Romance is now available to order, and I thought I'd give a little taste of my story "Till the Storm Breaks" to whet your appetite.



I'm pretty excited, because this will be my first print publication of any of my erotica. And seeing that "Best" there is just kind of tingly-feeling-giving. When Kristina Wright chose this story to be included, she didn't realize that it would be my first print publication. She called my story "lovely." Wow. :)

I think I'm ready for winter.

Excerpt from Till the Storm Breaks:

I tested a noodle. Not quite ready. I watched the bubbles rise to the surface and pop. Best laid plans. Best plans to get laid. I'd been looking forward to the guest suite that I knew Greg would have put me and Tim in, the one with the Jacuzzi and the floor to ceiling windows looking out at the ocean. I'd fantasized about Tim unzipping my red dress while I watched our reflection in the window. I loved to have sex when we were away from home. Hotel rooms with their matching beds to try out. Quaint bed and breakfasts with quilts on brass beds. On the floor at his parent's house (since they'd never replaced the boys' bunk beds). Tent camping. And here at our cabin. But not this time.

We were sleeping in the open loft and Teresa was on the pull-out. While I might have slid my hand into his pajamas, trying to interest him in something other than sleep, I knew that with Teresa so close downstairs, that Tim would just not go for it. He was a pretty vanilla guy, and not very forthcoming when it came to sharing fantasies or out-of-the-ordinary desires. But I loved him, and he seemed to enjoy my efforts to spice things up a bit for us. I realized as I stood there, that I was just a little bit aroused. That's what I get for thinking about sex, which I did on a regular basis.

"Hey, are the noodles ready?" Teresa looked over my shoulder. I stabbed one of the macaronis, held it up and blew on it, then fed it to her. "Done?" She smiled and nodded, and I watched her red hair sway with the movement. I felt an odd little rush as I became acutely aware of her breasts pressed against the back of my arm. Not wanting to move, yet needing to drain the noodles, I turned off the stove and emptied the pan into the colander in the sink. Steam rose, fogging the window. Just then the lights blinked. "Uh oh," Teresa said, "maybe we should light one of those candles in case…"

            We were plunged into darkness. 

Suite news!

Today I got the news that my story "Return to the Nonchalant Inn" will be in next year's Suite Encounters: Hotel Sex Stories, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel for Cleis Press! Needless to say, I'M THRILLED!!! Due out the middle of next year, it will be my second print publication of my erotica. There's just something about a book with paper and pages and a cover and print. I wasted no time in signing the contract and sending it back. :)

I've been reading Rachel's anthology for years and it is most definitely an honor to be chosen by her for this second anthology of hotel sex stories. I can't wait to see the TOC!

This comes on the heels of the release of Best Erotic Romance, edited by Kristina Wright for Cleis. I've got a story in that, and my next post will be an excerpt from it!

Letting go of the old year

Whoa. It's December already. It's been more than 2 weeks since my last post. Unintended.

I have more good stuff to announce, but that will be the next post, about looking forward to next year. This post is about letting go of the old one.

Back in late October I wrote about how this year seems to have been a lost year. In many ways it's also be a last year. Next year is truly going to be a "new" year for me. And as I stand on the brink, frost crunching under my feet (figurative frost - it's actually raining and almost 60 degrees!), just beginning to lean into what is coming, I've been slowly prying my fingers away from what I've been holding on to.

It's been a year of letting go. And I've still not let go of my fear of writing from the heart. I've been typing this paragraph over and over again. Shall I say it? Shall I not? Maybe some of it is still too raw and bloody. Things that have defined me, for decades or years or months or days, are being ripped away. By me. I've needed to let go of my attachment to activities, though loved, that had become stressful to the point that I'd come to dread them. I've needed to let go of my attachment to my wanting others to be what I wanted them to be, and not what they actually are.  I've needed to let go of hopes and dreams that were not at all attainable. All of these things I was holding on to were holding me back.

Next year is about moving. Moving on, moving forward, moving in new directions, moving towards something rather than away. Moving rather than being frozen in place.

Best Erotic Romance now available!

Best Erotic Romance, edited by Kristina Wright for Cleis Press, has been released!  I'm excited because I will be able to hold the book in my hands and turn to the page my story, "Till the Storm Breaks," begins on.

It won't be the first time I've been in print, but it will be the first time my erotica has been in print. Call me old-fashioned, but I like to hold a book. The tangible object is as much of the experience for me as the words.

Don't get me wrong, I think online is great. In fact I think it's one of the best things to ever happen during my lifetime. Despite all the CRAP out there on the internet, one cannot deny the wonderfulness of being able to just go and write for all the world to see.  Even if just a miniscule fraction of the world is seeing my blog, and hence my words, there are still folks all over the globe that have. Granted, they're not looking for "me." But I'd like to think that when someone types in one of the search phrases that lands them here, that even though what I've written isn't exactly what they're looking for, they still might spend a few minutes reading and enjoying what I've written.

Granted, I find myself a bit nervous too, now that this print book is out. I've yet to have the experience of having my writing commented on, other than by friends. While I have years of critique groups under my belt, I've never had my work "reviewed." So, yeah, I'm nervous about that.

Also, there's a few folks in my life that I haven't told about my Erobintica exploits (ha!) - namely my sister. Not that I think she'd going to wander into a bookstore on the other side of the country from me and pick up this book and turn to the bios and find her baby sister listed. But it's more that I'm proud of this. I'm proud of my writing. And wow, that was a difficult sentence to type.

This has been a year of transitions for me. As it draws to a close, I'm wondering what next year will bring. I hope I'll be able to point to more publications and more events/activities that I'm doing. I hope that my fears will start to fall away, and I can start to live up to some of the things friends and loved ones have told me about my writing.

Thank you everyone who is reading this!

Women In Lust: Erotic Stories

Most of the definitions I found of the word lust were somewhat unsatisfying and bland.

Until the one at Wikipedia: "Lust is an emotional force that is directly associated with the thinking or fantasizing about one's desire, usually in a sexual way."

Lust is most definitely a force. A force to be reckoned with.

Lust is a craving so strong that reason flies out the window.

Lust makes us do and say things that make us shake our heads and say "Did I say/do that?"

For those of us who are Dante's Inferno fans, our lust can send us straight to the second circle of hell, to be endlessly tossed around by "the terrible winds of a violent storm." Yup, sounds about right.

While preparing for this stop on the virtual book tour for Women In Lust: Erotic Stories edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel for Cleis Press, I kept getting sidetracked when I'd type "lust" in the search engine. There was an awfully lot of links associating lust with sin. Thankfully, the women of Women In Lust don't tend to worry about that.

But one link led me to Valentine de Saint-Point's Futurist Manifesto of Lust, where I found my favorite definition of lust:

Lust is the expression of a being projected beyond itself. It is the painful joy of wounded flesh, the joyous pain of a flowering. And whatever secrets unite these beings, it is a union of flesh. It is the sensory and sensual synthesis that leads to the greatest liberation of spirit. It is the communion of a particle of humanity with all the sensuality of the earth. 

The women who lust–Donna George Storey's Natalie, Brandy Fox's Brooke, Elizabeth Coldwell's Barbara, all of the women in this anthology–would embrace that definition wholeheartedly.

Over the course of the day, today, I'm going to come back and post a couple of lines about each story in the comments (a comment for each story). I'd post them all at once here, but it didn't occur to me till just now to do that as I read. I never liked taking notes while I read because I like to lose myself in the story.

For more about this book, go to  http://womeninlust.wordpress.com/about/.

The full Women In Lust Virtual Blog Tour schedule is at that link, with links to past and future posts. It's running for the full lusty month of November, with a trickle over into December. Reviews, interviews, and who knows what's to come?

Hot water poured down the drain

This morning I boiled water for tea. I didn't immediately pour it into a thermos carafe to keep it hot for a few hours and warm for many more. I poured some into my tea mug, swirled it to warm the cold ceramic, then poured it down the drain before pouring more over the tea bag. Have water available at the turn of a lever is something I usually take for granted.

This past Wednesday morning, I drove the less-than-mile to our local volunteer fire house to pick up a case of drinking water and fill containers with hose water for washing.

There was a one case limit, which was fine because it's only been my husband and me at home through this "disaster." I hadn't really prepared well for this storm, for various reasons that I'll go into shortly.

Back a couple of months ago, when Tropical Storm Irene came through, we'd had days to prepare, and I'd filled every suitable container I could find with drinking water, and some unsuitable ones. We collected pond water in a barrel for flushing toilets–though that wasn't so crucial because we set up a composting toilet like we use camping–and rain water (in a plastic bin) for use in our solar shower bag. We were without power for three days then, and there were four people in the house (this was a week before the kids went off to college). Though we could have gone and gotten water then, our power came on about a day before we needed it. I actually had some containers still filled. I didn't immediately dump them, but about a month later I did, because they weren't proper water storage containers. 

Little did I know that I'd need those so soon. Two months later, we were faced with a "disaster" that has been calculated to be five times as bad (in respect to damage and power outages). 

Now it was the end of October. I'd read there was a chance of snow on the weekend. We've had flurries this time of year before, even a little bit of "sticking" for a few hours. Some years it's been shirt-sleeve weather for trick-or-treating. This is New England after all, where if you don't like the weather, wait ten minutes, according to a Mark Twain saying. 

Friday morning I woke up to forecasts of 6-10 inches of snow, and cautions that because so many trees still had leaves, that there could be massive felling of limbs and trees and resultant power outages. The hardships of Irene's aftermath fresh in my head, I was concerned. Unlike the end of August, snow meant cold. But my husband downplayed my "panic" and despite my better judgement (in hindsight), I ignored my very "bad feeling" about the approaching nor'easter, and did nothing to prepare on Friday. 

He headed off on Saturday morning to drive two hours to where our kids are at school (he was delivering some things they needed and taking our son to an event as previously planned). The storm was supposed to start as rain, but instead, started off as snow. Heavy snow. Within an hour or so, we had 2 inches on the table on the deck. 

In the meantime, I'd started filling up containers with water. I boiled some and poured that into our thermos carafes. I filled the bathtub with water part way (something I didn't do last time). I baked a batch of almond  meal muffins (I should not eat wheat) as the power started blinking. While we had food in the house, it was the end of the pay period and stuff was low. It had taken me a couple of months to readjust my food-buying for only two people, and now that showed. Oh, we wouldn't go hungry–most of us have plenty of food on hand at any given time to survive quite awhile if we're not fussy–but my health-imposed diet is not one tailored for difficult conditions. By the time I knew that the weather prognosticators had been right this time, it was too late to head to the store. Our steep, uphill driveway was covered.

When the first casualty of the storm occurred–the old lilac pictured second in my post from yesterday–I started to get worried. I texted my husband and told him it was getting bad already, and that the lights had been blinking. As it got worse, and more and more limbs started to break and fall, each crrraaaacccckkkk made me flinch. Three summers ago, during a brief but violent thunderstorm, a huge willow fell on our roof. I was alone at home at the time (with my wrist in a cast), and had only moments before contemplated going out on the front step and watering plants. If I had of, the tree would have hit me. Our roof was badly damaged and was replaced. But ever since, I've been leery of the other tall trees (we can't afford to have them taken out) and as the afternoon wore on, I realized that I was suffering from a hardy case of PTSD. 

My husband FINALLY headed back about 2:30pm, shortly before our power went out. I didn't want to call him (he was driving in treacherous weather after all), so  I kept texting friends and family, trying to maintain a tether to sanity. At times my resentment of his leaving me alone during ANOTHER very stressful event (don't get me started - it's happened many times) was almost overwhelming. I was also disgusted with myself for not minding my intuition (that "bad feeling" about the storm) and preparing for what would turn out to be the longest we've ever gone without electricity EVER (at home - camping doesn't count - I once lived for most of six weeks without electricity when I was younger). 

We take so much for granted. When our power returned and the lights came on and the heat came on and we could turn a faucet and have running water, my body released tension that had been carrying it for days, and I was so exhausted that I could hardly read (in bed with a light on rather than a camping headlamp). 

I love camping. I desire to live much more simply than I do now–that's what our Maine dream is about. But I depend on my "stuff." For the first couple of days I'm fine. It's fun to "make do" and cook on the camp stove (with a window cracked to prevent carbon monoxide build-up despite the sub-freezing temps). We ate well. I bundled up and wore a scarf and hat in the house, which got up to 57 on the sunniest, warmest day with the basement woodstove going full blast. It takes much longer to do simple tasks, like washing dishes, when you can't just fill the sink with hot, soapy water. Keeping clean requires a sponge bath in a very cold bathroom. One of my reading materials was When All Hell Breaks Loose by Cody Lundin, which was a gift to my husband from our daughter this past August (before Irene - how prescient of her). 

What I found out is that I go into a mode of "just surviving" and lose interest in most other endeavors. Why bother? was my attitude. I had all the time in the world (not really) to write, but every time I tried, absolutely nothing came and it seemed pointless to me. As did cleaning and sorting items in anticipation of putting our house on the market in the Spring (so we can move to Maine). All my emotional dramas of the past few years seemed so totallyfuckinglystupid, that my disgust with myself just grew. But I did have a lot of time to think.

And what happened? Well, when the stress was released, I began finding my voice again. 

But then, as I typed that, the power went back off for an hour and a half. When it came back on, the internet did not come with it. I'm typing this from a hotel in another city where I'm staying with my daughter who has an important interview. While she's in that, I'm visiting a friend. And taking advantage of hotel internet! This musing will be continued.

Behind the times

For a few minutes I cruised through my blogger "Reading List" at all the posts on blogs I supposedly follow, when I have time. I haven't, and there were so many interesting posts that I wish I had time to read. I feel out-of-touch and behind the times.

And I realized something, just as I was typing that. Because I haven't been reading as much, my mind hasn't been sparked by other people's thoughts as much as it used to. I've been lost in my own over-crowded-with-life-stresses head, and that maybe that has contributed to my lack of inspiration.

I'm going to be away from my day-to-day world for this coming weekend, so maybe it'll give me a chance to catch up some. And I'll keep a notepad handy to jot down ideas for blog posts, etc.

And now I'm going to make myself some tea and write another post. :)

In the dark

On Oct. 29 the snow started to fall. The next morning we had 9 inches. The heavy, wet snow took down lots of limbs and trees. Power was out to just about the whole town for days. We were out for 5 days. It came on last night at 9:30pm. Still no internet (I'm uploading this from a place with wifi). That'll be another few days, based on our experience after Tropical Storm Irene came through two months ago (this was much worse). When it's cold and you don't have the "comforts of home" - it makes so much about our lives seem rather pointless. It took hours of my day just to take care of basic necessities (water, light, warmth, food). And it was just me and my husband. Thank goodness for cell phones. Those were our only way to get in touch with our kids at college (also affected by storm). I'm rethinking a lot. It will be interesting to see what the future brings.

The lost year

It's turned chilly. The leaves are falling. Weeds are dying back. We may have some snow flurries this weekend. The end of the year will be here far too quickly.

When this year started, I had so many plans. Basically, almost none of them have come to pass. It's been "one of those years." Now it's almost November. Not much time to catch up, even if my life was all leisure and ease. Which it's not. Doesn't help that I beat myself up for procrastinating and not following through and being afraid. What happened to the Erobintica that posted things like this, the post with the most hits over time on my blog? Well, I'm more than just her, and life has left little time for her.

This  hasn't been a completely wasted year. I have had a couple of acceptances, and nice things have been said about the stuff that was rejected. I've not written much at all, though I guess what I have written is good (because of those acceptances and comments). I have lots of ideas. But no focus. At times I want to throw up, throw up my hands, or just throw in the towel.

But I won't give up on this. Not sure why. Or maybe I am. This blog got started partly as my reaction to the giving up of a friend. Quite literally. He gave up. And because that's where this blog comes from, in part, I find I refuse to give up.

So, I'm doing things like taking part in Rachel Kramer Bussel's Women in Lust Blog tour on November 14.

And I'm going to submit to Joan Price's anthology.

As we "de-clutter" [read: MASSIVE] in preparation for putting our house on the market so we can get our asses up to Maine (see picture above - that is what I could be looking at most days), I hope to find plenty of inspiration for writing. And maybe it will have to wait till next year. But I'm not giving up.

Writing from where I am

This morning I've pulled on a sweater, made a pot of tea, squeezed a bit of lemon in my cup, put on my favorite autumnal music (Autumn by George Winston), and prepared to work on a special story. Why special? Because I am going to write it from where I am right now. Mentally. Emotionally.  Physically. This is a story I'm planning on sending to Joan Price for her Senior Erotica Anthology (call for submissions here), open to writers over the age of 50. She's not looking for "youthful erotica with an older chronological age slapped on."

I'm 53. I'll be 54 by the Feb. 1, 2012 deadline. Though I don't consider myself a senior, I know I am no longer young. I've gone through menopause and have discovered that nothing seems to work like it used to. Also, lately I've been having a very hard time writing erotica (well, writing anything). And I realized it's because I haven't been allowing myself to write from where I am. To write from what I'm experiencing now. 

So, when I first heard about this call (back before it was an actual call), I was excited. I'd already started writing with "older" characters, and look forward to being able to have some news along those lines. But I've been struggling to come up with a story (gee, no "theme" other than over 50, doesn't help). That's when I realized, that I really have to write what I know for this one. Maybe I knew that all along, but was resistant. 

This blog post has been a loosening up of my fingers in anticipation of writing that story. I'll let you know how it goes. 

Into the thicket

Tonight while doing the dishes with my husband, I was compelled to just lean against his back and kiss him between the shoulder blades. We'd been listening to Marketplace and they had a story about online dating in China and modern matchmakers. "Glad you're not dating in China?" was his response. Yeah. Very. 

And as soon as I write that, I worry that my single friends will think that's a dig at them. I don't want it to seem like a "ninner ninner lookie what I got and you don't" (as my heart cringes just to type those words). So many of my friends are divorced, widowed, never married, "retired," not dating, starting to date, whatever, and many of them are going the online route. All I know is that I have so many personal self-image and self-esteem issues that any profile of mine would probably be "you don't want me." 

So yeah, I'm glad that I'm long-married (30 years on Oct. 4) and that we seem to have weathered plenty of storms so that hopefully future ones will also leave us standing. Have never quite been sure what he saw/sees in me. But enough time has passed that I've stopped really questioning it. We celebrated with a quiet dinner at home accompanied with champagne paid for by a friend and a couple of rounds of our newest evening entertainment–"dirty scrabble." Yup, now that the kids are gone (1 married, 2 at college), we can do things like make up our own rules (more about dirty scrabble another time).

Earlier today I commented on a Facebook post by Shanna Germain. She'd posted about some unwelcome attention that left her feeling icked out (my words). The comments ranged from the typical I'll kick their ass for you to ponderings about safety, being able to wear whatever you want, etc. A friend posted an apology for his gender. Some guys posted tongue-in-cheek replies that I was able to spot as such and laugh, but some of the other commenters didn't. There at one point seemed to be quite an undercurrent of us vs. them. Guys are mindless droolers who are incapable of controlling themselves. From there to Slutwalks and whistling and harassment. Although it was sorted out (use emoticons when joking), it still left me feeling a little sad that there is such a divide between men and women. 

It's hard for everyone. Old ways of relating, how to approach someone, what's acceptable, what's not–all this is changing. Women want to be able to be themselves. They don't want to have to fear harassment or violence just because. Men, no longer sure of how to act, can end up stifling parts of themselves out of fear of being a "male chauvinist pig," to use a term from my youth. 

Meanwhile Dominance/submission seems hot in the erotica world. And it's something I have trouble with. I've yet to really been able to write any. And often, reading them, no matter how hot, I feel a bit uncomfortable. Guess it's that thin line that bothers me. I still have trouble separating myself from my writing. 

What has ANY of this had to do with anything else here? I don't know. It's just my mind's ramblings. I'm trying to connect my typing fingers to my brain again. I need to get writing again. But I've been going through enough changes that I'm not sure where I'm writing from anymore. 

Being social.

I was one of those many folks complaining loudly about the changes to Facebook this week. I'd not had much sleep the night before after traveling to and from Philly for The Erotic Literary Salon. I was in no shape on Wednesday morning to figure out what the hell they'd done. But now, with some sleep, and probably way too much time spent on the site, I think I've figured a few things out and actually find myself liking some of the new features.

The thing I like the most is that it is now easier to make lists of folks for sharing purposes. I'd tried before, but there was no easy way. But now I have an "erotica blog folks" list so that I can share these blog posts as well as posts from other folks that I've wanted to share, but didn't think my kids or old co-workers of my husband would care to see. That I found, was putting a serious damper on my Erobintica activities. And yeah, I know that I could have customized each post, but that's too much work! Easier to just not hit "share."

So, today I'm able to write this and share it. And I went in and checked something so that the buttons to share these posts (on Facebook or Twitter, etc.) show up. Gee. Duh. Did I think about that before? Nooooooooo.

Later today I hope to post about how the ELS reading went. But I must do some "real" work first.

Reading at The Erotic Literary Salon tonight!

Last November I read at The Erotic Literary Salon (I wrote about it here) in Philadelphia. Tonight I'm reading there again, but accompanied by a couple of the women who are in a poetry performance troupe with me. Though one is not doing poetry, but rather reading a wonderful story she penned years ago. This will be the first time she'll get to read it for an audience.

Erotic work is funny that way. So many people like it, and so many people read it, and so many people write it, but places to share that work are few and far between. Susana Mayer is doing something about that.

I'll post about it, maybe even with pix, when I get back and things slow down a bit (yeah, right

Do I revive this blog?

Since April ended, I have only written eight (8!) blog posts here. The reasons are numerous. And now I've gotten out of the habit of writing posts. And that makes it harder to pick it up again. And I've wondered whether that means that this blog's days are past. And that makes me sad. And sort of angry.

Why angry? Because I let this happen. I could point to this and that and the other in order to fix blame. But it simply comes down to this. I did not make room in my days to sit down and blog. And this wasn't always consciously. I'd have "write blog post" on my to-do list, but would always find some excuse to skip over it. Eight posts in four and a half months. And two of those months there was only one post!

Had this blog become unimportant to me? No, not at all. I take pride in the nickname Erobintica. I've made some very good friends through this blog. I've taken steps that I never would have without it. But I still have such a long ways to go.

This year is a year of transitions for me. Notice the word "smooth" is missing from that sentence. The way does not seem to be paved. I could make some four-wheeling comment here, but I won't. But I do need to keep moving.

For a bit, I pondered just closing up shop and dropping out of sight. I'd found that I was afraid to write what I wanted to write because... I want people to like me and it occurred to me that if I wrote as honestly as I wanted to needed to, that I could/would alienate not only strangers and acquaintances alike, but even the very people I love (and who love me). Yeah, wanting to be "liked" can be a huge hindrance. Limiting. Inhibiting. Paralyzing. I'm not sure I'm strong enough to say "fuck it all I don't care what anybody thinks!" Not sure I want to be though. Caring is what makes me me.

I honestly don't know what I'll be like in this next stage of my life.

So, possibly against better judgement, I've decided to revive this blog. I'm going to try to not let my low stats get to me. I'll try not to let a lack of comments get to me. I've always had a terrible case of no comment = negative reaction. Just ask the folks closest to me. Ha! It would be so nice to get a little bit of self-esteem before I'm history.

I have no idea what this revived blog will look like. I probably won't change how it looks right now. That's partly because I know that changing things always screws something up and I'm so fucking particular that I would waste inordinate spans of time trying to fix some mess-up in an innocuous post from 2 years ago that nobody reads! Also, I like the way my blog looks. Even though it's one of those black-background themes that so many people don't seem to like (hard on the eyes, pretentious, what-have-you).

So, welcome to my "new" blog. Erobintica.

Summer of too much to do.

With no time for blogging, it seems. In ten days, the two remaining kids at home will be heading off to college. One for her last semester and the other, my "baby" for his freshman year. This summer has flown off at supersonic speed, and so many of my projects have been left waiting in the terminal. Hopefully, in September, I can play catch-up.

Best Erotic Romance!

I am so excited about this!  Recently, Kristina Wright released the Table of Contents for Best Erotic Romance and there I am, Erobintica, right there amongst some truly wonderful writers! Yes, I will pay the excess-use-of-exclamation-marks fine. Happily. !!!   !!!!  ;)

Got the photo loaded–finally!

Table of Contents

Introduction: Simply the Best

What Happened in Vegas     Sylvia Day

First Night       Donna George Storey

Another Trick Up My Sleeve      Heidi Champa

Drive Me Crazy      Delilah Devlin

Once Upon a Dinner Date      Saskia Walker

He Tends To Me       Justine Elyot

Guest Services      Angela Caperton

Memories for Sale      Andrea Dale

Blame It On Facebook      Kate Dominic

The Draft       Craig J. Sorensen

To Be in Clover      Shanna Germain

Honey Changes Everything      Emerald

Cheating Time      Kate Pearce

Our Own Private Champagne Room      Rachel Kramer Bussel

Till the Storm Breaks      Erobintica  (that's me!)

The Curve of Her Belly     Kristina Wright

Dawn Chorus     Nikki Magennis

Going "Adult Content"

Yeah, I've decided to go with Blogger's "Adult Content" warning page, despite my not liking the idea, because of what I read here (about Google + and Google's NSFW issues). I am wanting my Erobintica blog to loosen up a bit, and I realized that fear of being shut out of here has kept me from doing that. Hence, not many posts of late.

So, yeah, I'm sorta pissed at myself for capitulating. I remember back when Alison Tyler had her blog reported and she put up the warning page and a bunch of other erotica folks did the same. At the time I wasn't being very daring in my blog, so I stayed open. But we seem to be going through another period of sexual hysteria (Emerald has a good Recommended Reading post on it here), and since I want to promote some stuff (announcement coming), without having to censor myself, I'm going to go behind the Content Warning door.

A lot to say, Part 2

In the week since my last blog post (A lot to say, Part 1), I've read several things that have moved me and made me think. I finished up that post talking about how I'm still hesitant to be completely open about what I think of as my Erobintica work.

For instance: When I post something new here, I don't automatically  post a link to my Facebook page. Oh, I have at times when I've been posting poems, but when I'm writing real introspective stuff, especially if it has to do with sexual stuff, I don't tend to post those links. Why? I mean, I'm writing it here, for anybody with an internet connection and the ability to search to find. If you search for "euphemisms for sucking dick," or "cock" for that matter, I am the top result with this post. In an odd way, I'm rather proud of that.

But I don't go about boasting about it (well, except here) and I sometimes (often?) worry what people will think if they find out. I've yet to have a very bad reaction from someone, surprise yes, but I've yet to had to deal with outrage, or anything close. But I'm sure the day will come. And what will I do then? And why the hell do I worry about it so much??? I worry because I've seen what has been said about other women who have written (or spoken) openly about sexuality and I feel like I need to have the courage of my convictions before I go spouting off (to put it bluntly). As such, I'm a work-in-progress. But I also believe that nobody is truly ready for trouble, and I'm not getting any younger, so, what am I waiting for?

Last week, in the comments on Part 1, Emerald linked to an article by Dr. Marty Klein titled Censorship and the Fear of Sexuality.  (Other cultures too, but that's not the point of this.) The article starts out with this:

"Most Americans don't want to discuss sexual issues rationally. Their sexuality poisoned by the culture, they just want their emotional pain taken away. To people afraid of sexuality, censorship looks attractive."

When I read this I thought of the book "Pornland" by Gail Dines (not linking on purpose). I've started reading it as part of an attempt to understand how this fear manifests in others. I wrote a little bit about my own thoughts on the porn thing back in March when I reviewed Erika Lust's "Good Porn" and got to interview her. Don't want to go off on that tangent right now.

Something else that Marty Klein said that I found intriguing was this:

"Because we live in a sex-negative culture, many people want eroticism kept private throughout society. This is their social policy response to their individual discomfort, similar to institutionalizing personal racism via the social policy of apartheid."

I've always wondered why I was vaguely bothered by the whole "TMI" response of people when someone reveals something about themselves that has to do with what I think of as bodily sexuality. Why is that too much information? Why is something that is so crucial to who we are as sexual human beings assumed to be something that shouldn't be shared?

When I write erotica, even as fiction, I am sharing a part of myself, sexually, with the reader. I can't help it. In order to write what I do, I have to think it first. And I'm thinking it because it turns me on. And while I have written vanilla, heteronormative, married characters erotica (back when just the act of writing down sexual thoughts felt transgressive to me), that's not what pushes my buttons and not really what I want to write these days.

So, should I, or other erotica authors keep these thoughts, these "stories" private, not share them, because they make someone uncomfortable? I talk about "eroticaland" and the folks I've met here fairly often. But right there I can see Klein's "aparteid" comment in action. This is the whole genre vs. literary fiction thing, but with the extra twist of private vs. public sex (which Klein talks about).

And I'm not just talking about fiction. I'm also writing personal essays (which my blog is mostly made up of if you think about it), and in those there's no hiding behind the "it's only a story."

It's almost midnight. I have lots to do tomorrow, so I'm going to stop here for now. But I'll be back with Part 3, in which I delve more into what Marty Klein wrote in this article.

A lot to say, Part 1

It's been more than a month since I've posted anything here and I decided I better get my ass in gear and post something for June! This post will probably jump around all over the place, so fasten your seat belts!

Today I clicked on the the "yes, mobile template" button so that folks looking at my blog from a mobile device can hopefully read it easier, and so maybe more will read. Of course, I have to write something for there to be something to read, so I hope to remedy the lack of updates with various odd postings. If you are reading this on a mobile device and have read here before without the new fancy schmancy mobile template, I'd appreciate hearing if it made a difference or not.

This past Saturday (June 25), I read a few of my poems at Essensuality in NYC. Billed as "An Evening of Erotic Expression," this series run by Monica Day, is a wonderful venue for material that might not be appropriate to share at a "regular" reading venue.  I appreciate venues like this, and The Erotic Literary Salon (run by Susana Mayer, a friend of Monica's, in Philadelphia), where I've read before, because I get to read the poems that I don't do otherwise, like this one. I'll talk a bit about why in a minute.

I'd attended Essensuality once before, back in March when Jeremy Edwards was a featured performer. Then, and again this month, the evening is a smorgasbord of erotic performances, including music, dance,  poetry, fiction, memoir, skits, and more. It truly is an OPEN mike.

Which brings me back to why I don't read some of my poems for ... how should I put this? ... general audiences. I know that poems that erotically use the words cunt and cock in them would not go over with everyone (emphasis on everyone) at a plain old poetry reading. I am NOT in this for the shock value. Also, I am chicken. At venues like Essensuality and The Erotic Literary Salon, people are there expecting to hear stuff like that. *And if not, they make a quick exit. My hope is that someday, after reading enough times at venues like these, that I'll become more comfortable reading these sorts of works. Anyhow. It was a good evening. I think my friend enjoyed it. I'll be back next time (in September) when Emerald is scheduled to be a feature.

*****

One thing I've been dealing with over the past several years (at least) is how it feels to me that society in general STILL thinks that any and all expressions of our real sexuality should be kept behind closed doors, under the covers, and in the dark. I hear it in off-hand comments from friends, relatives, and acquaintances. I hear it in commentary from various self-proclaimed pundits. I heard a lot of it with the recent twitpic media frenzy. And all that reinforces the shame that I've been fighting against for way longer. It manifests in small ways.

For the past several months I've been working to revamp my personal website, the one for the "writer" me. For a few years, there was no linkage between there and here. Then there was a covert link on a crowded page. That page is gone now (too many broken links). My new site is going to fully meld all my various and diverse writing activities. It will link to this blog, and others. It will link to any poems I can link to. It will have video of my readings, including the one at The Erotic Literary Salon. 

I've been having a hard time with this. Working very slowly. Part of the reason is that while I want to be completely open about the Erobintica side of me (as I put it), I still am a little hesitant.

Why? Well, I'd keep going, but it's evening and we're going to watch the special features disc from Pan's Labyrinth tonight and I have to be up very early tomorrow. So I'm going to post this and come back to it - hopefully tomorrow afternoon.

And so it goes

It's been awhile since I did a blog post here. I've been working on various other projects, submitting work, getting accepted, getting rejected. Business as usual. Also procrastinating.

Last week I held off on announcing the inclusion of my one of my flash fiction pieces, Strands of Imagination, in a new publication, The Other Dance. This short piece was paired up with a lovely erotic watercolor by artist Rod MacIver. The reason I held off was two-fold: 1) I wanted to find out if I could use some art on my post and 2) I just was busy enough to not get around to it.

Now, less than a week after my piece went out (it was a newsletter form of publication, with works supposed to be archived at the site), The Other Dance, as well as the erotic art site, Wild Artist Erotica, is closed (that link is to the notice of closure). Luckily I took a screen shot of my work and bio before it disappeared in the ether.

But the saddest part of all this is that Emerald had been hired to be the editor of this and she was so excited (and a bit nervous as well) about this endeavor. It's been hard watching a friend get tossed on the waves like this. Emerald had written a lovely post announcing this, as well as one today explaining the sudden closure. There's not much more I can add.

While I'm saddened that my work, and the lovely art it was paired with, is no longer accessible, I find that I'm taking this in stride. I do believe that at some level, the societal shame that surrounds the erotic had a hand in this. At least that's what I read between the lines at the closure statement.

But this has just made me more intent on getting going on a project that I've been mulling for quite some time. So, watch for an announcement, hopefully within the next month. Also, I'm more committed than ever to my erotic writing. I've said it before and I'll say it again, and again, and again.

Fuck Shame!

A cabin of one's own

The walls may just be camo and tan tarps, the desk may be jury-rigged from a flooring scrap of oriented strand board, and I may not be able to see out of my "window" (because of the tarp), but I've got my laptop, my mocha, and a pot of purple and white pansies to help me christen my writing cabin.

Very early this morning, around 3 AM, I woke up, and despite the 38 degrees, I had to go out into the woods to pee. The stars were magnificent, and I was reminded why I want to be up here so badly–I can rarely see any but the very brightest stars anymore where we "live."

Just now a hummingbird flew in through the open door and just as quickly left. Early this morning, along with the owls and woodpeckers, we heard something different, and when my son got up, he discovered it was a spruce grouse, drumming it's call just outside the cabin. Right now the woods are filled with birdsong, and I can hear the water rushing over the waterfall down the hill.

This morning I wandered, found a blooming trillium, such a simple flower, yet one I've always loved, and there I was crouching on the ground trying to take a decent photograph of it (it's kind of blurry). It's still very early Spring here, no leaves on the trees yet, fiddleheads still unfurled, the landscape still mostly brown and gray. But the sun is warm on this south-facing slope, and a gentle breeze is crinkling the tarp walls.

I'm more relaxed right now than I've been in months. When I took my walk this morning, instead of flat pavement with SUVs whizzing by me and garbage in the gutter to look at, I hiked downhill, ducking under branches and stepping over logs to get to a small stream, where I took pictures of the water flowing over stone. Then I scrambled along it's bank till I came to a marshy area where I peered at the sparkling mica in the water before heading back uphill, over an old stone wall, to return to our picnic table. It was a much shorter walk than I normally take, but much better exercise and much more enjoyable.

This place feels more like home to me now than my suburban "home" where I've lived for the past eighteen-plus years. I want to be up here permanently. While I know I'll miss my friends, I hope they will come visit this beautiful place, and I know I will make new ones. In fact later today we're stopping in to visit neighbors up the road that have become friends, to say hi and get reacquainted after being away for six months.

Because it's been six months since I was up here last! When I realized that last night, as I lay in the sleeping bag, looking up at the ceiling of my cabin, with it's old barn timbers and silly, but oddly appropriate Mossy Oak camo panels, I felt a combination of grief–for being away so long–and rejoicing for being "home."

This is not a working trip. I'd just wanted to come up here for Mother's Day, to be in this place. There is much work to be done this year if my cabin is to be completed before winter. There are logs for the cordwood walls needing to be cut. I've been saving and collecting bottles for a couple of years to make bottle windows and those have to be made. I have to build window frames for the old windows we bought last year, and I want to build the door myself. Then there's the laying of the cordwood with mortar to form the walls. Stones need to be collected to use in the wall that will face the little pot-bellied stove I have already. The roof needs to be insulated and then have the final roofing put on (right now it's just tarpaper). Under the floor needs to be insulated too, and flooring laid down. Hopefully we can use old barn wood for that. A porch and stairs needs to be built. And I want to build some rustic furniture for the cabin.

When I write it all out, that's a lot of work. I will have to spend long stretches up here this year if that's going to get done. Some friends have said they'd like to come up here and help, and that would be nice. It will be good to sit here writing and look at the walls and know that friends helped and left some of their energy here. I'm not coming up here to run away. Though I have to admit that it's nice to be away from the hassles of what's come to be daily life.

This is my "room of one's own." Already, even with just tarps for walls and oriented strand board sheeting for a desk. I feel happy and at peace. I feel sheltered here. It is home.

A Fucking Shame

*Note: There are  no links in this since I wrote it as an essay, not a blog post. If you don't know what I'm referring to in the first paragraph, go watch this news video. I'm probably going to keep writing on this, but here's where I'm starting.

Incensed about the news story "outing" an English teacher who writes erotic romance in her spare time under a pseudonym, I blogged, commented, and shared links like a madwoman. My righteous indignation nerve had been set off and I was twitchy. I couldn't quite believe my ears when I heard it suggested that this woman choose between being an English teacher or being a author. WTF???!!! Probably most English teachers either are, or harbor a desire to be, writers. Surprise! The newscasters used words like "racy" and "salacious" with a tittering glee–wink wink nudge nudge–that bothered me.

I'd never read any of this author's work, hadn't even heard of her before since I'm not much into romance, erotic or otherwise. But I was filled with a fury, ready to fight for her right to write whatever she wanted to. Proudly proclaimed "I write erotica!" Yet, while reading the overwhelmingly supportive comments on the news site and elsewhere, I felt a vague unease. Over and over again people wrote that her life was "now ruined" in some way or another because her "cover had been blown." Reading comments like "only her imagination" and "she used a pen name" and "not like it's pornography" and even "she should have been more careful" bothered me.

The implication from the outraged parents was that this woman had done something wrong by writing about sex, that somehow she was a threat, especially to the "young minds" she was entrusted with.  It seemed to me that this was akin to slut-shaming. But even the positive comments seemed ambiguous to me, and I couldn't help but sense some victim-blaming. Was I perhaps taking all these comments personally?

What bothered me the most though, was this: why could I get all fired-up for someone else, but not myself? Just a week before I'd been wailing, quite literally at times, about not being able to write anything. I'd sit down at the keyboard and

nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing, but I was most definitely stuck. I even blogged about being stuck. Yes, there is irony there. More than one person got after me to "stop writing about not writing!" But it seemed the only thing I could. The ideas and words were in my head, but I was afraid to put them down, make them solid. And I knew why, but I didn't want to admit it. What I hated seeing applied to another person was something that I had no trouble at all burying myself under.

It was shame. Or more accurately, is. An insidious, permeating sense that there is something wrong with me for wanting to write about sex. Oh, I'm continually doing battle with it. I have a custom-made necklace with the words "Fuck Shame" stamped in the metal. I'd won it in a contest, and was asked "will you really wear it?" I said sure! And sometimes I do wear it proudly. But sometimes, depending on where I am, I pull the pendant around so it's hidden by my hair. More often than not it languishes in my jewelry box for months. That pretty much sums up my internal conflict with not only writing about sex, but sex itself. I want to/I'm afraid.

Despite having what my husband calls a "one-track-mind," I was in my early thirties before I even wrote any erotica. It was a gorgeous Spring day and I'd taken a walk down by a creek that flowed near our house. I was acutely aware of the sensuousness of walking through the tall ferns and found a wonderful little spot under a myrtle tree where the sun dotted the ground. When I got home, I sat down with my journal out in the yard and wrote down a detailed fantasy/"story" involving a woman taking her husband to a spot like the one I'd found, and having incredible sex with him there. I wrote detailed and lush and found myself so turned on by the time I finished writing that I had to lock myself in the bathroom and quick masturbate. All good, right? Well, as I wrote it then, the woman snaps out of her fantasy. Also, I wasn't able to show the "story" to my husband. I can't remember why I didn't, though I know I wanted to. But I was scared, not quite sure where what I'd written had come from. And so I kept it to myself.

It would be another ten years or so before I typed it up and showed it to him. And though I wrote other erotic stories around the time I got up the nerve to share that first one, I couldn't share those. Why? Because I realized that even though the characters were fictional, the settings fictional, the dialogue fictional, the desire to experience the sex that I was writing about was real. I really wanted to do those things. Have sex outdoors, suck cock in the shower, have wonderfully uninhibited anal sex, and much more. But though I intellectually knew those things were not "wrong" or "bad," I felt shame.

Yeah, about now I'm sure you're going WTF? Nothing wrong with ANY of that! Well, yeah, I know. But if sex is something that evokes shame, maybe because a person is an incest survivor, as I am, the shame surrounding sexuality can set up a nasty feedback loop. I'm ashamed of being ashamed, which makes me more ashamed of being ashamed, so, I'm ashamed, etc. etc. ad nauseum. And it's fucking hard to break out of that loop, because once it starts, it feeds on itself. The term "meltdown" is quite an apt description of what ensues.

So why do I want to write about sex if it causes me such distress at times? Good question. Maybe through writing erotica and stuff like this, I'm trying to figure out my relationship with sex and how that fits into my relationship with the world at large. It's also my way of fighting back, hopefully shoving the shame a bit further out of the way, so it doesn't constantly trip me up. Because it sure has sent me sprawling at times, and still does. And I'm sure I'm not the only one. The pavement is littered with us. Another reason I want to write about sex is I want to figure out why I didn't end up hating it. Even though some of my sexual interactions haven't been completely healthy (excuse me while I ROFLMAO), I love sex, and intend to keep fucking till the day I die. I can say that because I'm having a good day. But when I'm in a shame spiral, I want to never be sexual again. There I am, facedown on the ground.

I consider myself to be "sex-positive" and try to be open-minded when it comes to the wide range of sexual ways of being (though because of my issues, there are some things I don't know if I'll ever be comfortable thinking about–such as sexual age-play). But despite a gut-level ick reaction, I'm intensely curious about how people's sexualities manifest themselves. And that curiosity extends to myself. Spending time getting to know other erotica authors in blogland, I found that this curiosity is shared by others. Here were people who wanted to write this stuff for the same reasons I did.

But when I was dealing with my incest issues, I tended to think of my sexuality in terms of brokenness. I couldn't see my fantasies or desires (well, the non-vanilla ones) as anything other than evidence of my damage, and even took that as far as trying to rid myself of a particularly potent three-way fantasy. Even though it was more than twenty years old at the time, having been planted by a former lover, and pretty much guaranteed to either get me turned on or bring me to orgasm, I wanted to "get rid of it." At the time, I saw everything through shame-colored glasses, and this really hot fantasy was something that looked "sick" to me. I couldn't shake it though, and it would take quite a few more years for me to accept this as one of my hot buttons.

And this is where one of the oft cited comments of "it's only imagination" got under my skin. Because, while there are situations I imagine that I'm not all that interested in having happen "in real life," there are others that I do, and I can't explain why the difference. When I'm with other sex-positive type folks, I don't feel any conflict. I can feel good about myself. The shame fades into the background. But just let the question "how could you think those thoughts?" be asked, and I'm not sure how to respond. And I get afraid. It's rather circular. Brave, afraid, brave, afraid.

As for the pseudonym thing, when I first contemplated submitting some of my stuff for publication, I had a name all picked out. But because I worried that I was thinking of using a pen name out of shame (rather than practical issues like a job that could conceivably be lost, and don't get me started on that!), I used a part of my real name. Eventually I started using my full name. Why? Because I don't want to be ashamed. I shouldn't have to be ashamed. That's my thing.  I have no problem with other writers using pen names. I know plenty of them and I know they've given a lot of thought to it and they don't use it out of shame. But it's a shame that they have to.

Is what I write considered by some to be pornography? I imagine so. And when I pull up my little dictionary widget and look up the word, here's the definition that I get for pornography: "printed or visual material containing the explicit description or display of sexual organs or activity, intended to stimulate erotic rather than aesthetic or emotional feelings."  Well then, yeah, I write pornography, since I sure hope it stimulates erotic feelings. Why is that not as valid as writing to stimulate aesthetic feelings? Poetry anyone? Or emotional feelings? Horror, mystery, thriller, chicken soup–the list goes on. Hell, even cookbooks can evoke strong emotions!

As for being careful, you can only be just so. I don't want to live in paranoia. Our society is pretty fucked up when it comes to sex. And hiding it and not talking about it just perpetuates the worst and stifles the best. I've always admired those folks that just don't give a fuck what others think of them. Yeah, maybe they feel shame at times, but they fight it. And you know what? I want to be like that.

And what of this piece of writing? What's the purpose of it? It's just me trying to figure out why the fuck I got so aggravated over the Judy Mays "outing" incident and then went into a major shame spiral about my own desire to write sex. Standing on the outside, I can say that I have every right to write about anything I damn well please. But when I'm in the maelstrom, there is nothing but the shame. I tell myself that I should give up writing, utterly and completely. Yes, deny and give up something that makes me who I am. Again, WTF???!!! That's shame talking, and I need to learn to recognize it and learn to talk back to it.

And those people who are so quick to condemn those of us who dare to put sexual thought to paper, or on the internet, my suspicion is that they feel the pull of the erotic too, but because of shame, they can't accept that in themselves or in others. They're like kids that aren't having any fun and want to stop the fun of others. It's like they're saying I can't enjoy my sexuality, so don't you dare enjoy yours!  Well, that's just a fucking shame. So, I guess I'll keep writing. Imagine I'll outrage some, piss off others. But maybe somewhere, someone like me will read my words and think, I can do that! Wouldn't that be nice?

So what was that?

Yesterday's e[lust] post was something new - for me. I'd submitted my "Inspired by MomentumCon" blog post to be included in that e[lust] edition, and in exchange, I post the edition on my blog. There's enough links there to keep me in reading material for quite some time!

I was alerted to the call for MomentumCon blog posts by Emerald (who also has a post included). I may occasionally send appropriate blog posts to e[lust] in the future. I don't really have a "plan" for my blog, not even sure I have a direction I'm going in. I'd like to have more folks reading, but I also don't want to ignore my other writing in order to do blog posts. It's a dilemma.

Anyhow, I need to try and focus on some writing this week. Yesterday I got a rejection (albeit a nice one) and it's something I sent last minute, which I've been tending to do. I need to stop that and get stuff out much sooner. So, that's what I'm gonna do. But still, there's deadlines looming which I don't want to let pass. It's almost more important to me that I actually submit something than get anything accepted. If that makes sense.

Fighting back by writing like a motherfucker.

You can get one of these mugs here.

If you've known me lately, or read any of the posts here lately, you know I've been having a minor (or  major depending on point of view) meltdown. Yeah, I've been a mess. And that's disappointed and distressed (and/or pissed off) those friends and loved ones who have any dealings with me.

Today, while ranting hysterically at my husband (who was incredibly patient with me through it all), I said "I sound like my mother." Then, "I don't want to become my mother." And it dawned on me, through the haze of overwrought emotion, that I had so internalized her own view of herself, that I was continuing with her self-imposed limitations and self-destructive tendencies. Yeah. That same old rut. She died unhappy and unfulfilled. 

I don't want to do that. So, I'm gonna write like a motherfucker. That links to the signature Dear Sugar post at The Rumpus that gave rise to this saying. I've read that piece many times. Wish it would sink in. I have that mug. I drink mochas out of it (I also drink out of my fucking bunny mug, which I should take a picture of too). I have a lot of words in me. A lot of stories and poems and opinions and thoughts. All of which I've been deathly afraid of. 

It's hard - next to impossible really - to grow self-confidence overnight. Realizing I don't want to turn out like my mother (long gone now) has planted the seed. I'm going to have to use anger to fertilize it and tears to water it. Practicing healthy selfishness (something I'm totally unfamiliar with) will have to be the sunlight. 

I have to trust. We'll see what grows.