A bit of an update

So, I just noticed that there were several posts that had never been posted, that were saved as drafts. Some of them were more than 2 years old. Don't know if I'll go back and finish them and post them, or rewrite them, or just leave them, or delete them. Since I'm not sure which, I'm doing nothing about it right now. ;-)

Pretty soon I'll be adding a couple of new anthologies over there on the right, and on my links page. I've sent a few things out this year, but not much, and I've not been very prolific. In fact, writing is still a struggle. But, I'm keeping at it. Slowly. Painfully. LOL.

The weirdest thing is that I've now told my sister about my erotica writing, this blog, etc. I hadn't before. Various reasons. But now she's on Facebook and sent me a friend request. Those of you who know me there, know I'm miss postalot. And I'm not real shy. But this is going to be interesting. She'll be seeing a side of me that I don't think she ever has. Or if she has, she's never said anything.

I keep forgetting to blog. I've been pretty scattered the past six months. And most of my pageviews are for older posts anyhow. But, I need to start doing this more. It's practice. We'll see.

When inspiration strikes

There's a lot of debate among writers about waiting for inspiration versus just sitting down and putting in the time. Seems whatever it is that a particular writer does, they think that is the best way to do it. Thing is, I think there is a spectrum and writers are scattered all along it. Some just sit down, same time same place, every day, and write. That's all fine and good, but that doesn't work for me if I don't already have something I'm working on. I just end up sitting there, watching the cursor blink.

I've been pretty stuck lately. While I've written about 60 pages of poetry (yeah, I know, that doesn't sound stuck), most of that hasn't even been typed into the computer and it sure hasn't been edited. A lot of that is just emotional spewing on the page, trying to get the events of December 14 and aftermath out of my head and onto the page. Have no idea if those words will ever be sent out. They're sitting for now.

Writing erotica has not back come easily. I wrote one little piece for my own whatever. I haven't been able to get back to any of the novels I was working on (or thinking about working on). I've let plenty of submission calls pass by. Even when I felt the words piling up behind my mental levee, I couldn't open the floodgates. I kept having this image of myself, finger in the dike, while cracks and leaks developed all around me. The words were there, I just didn't want to let them flow.

How come? Because I knew what those words wanted to say. And that knowledge terrified me. Yeah, I'm just another neurotic writer.

Then something clicked in me, late in the afternoon, while I puttered in the kitchen fixing dinner. After doing the dishes, I took a walk, and jotted hard-to-read notes to myself in my little notebook I carry in my back pocket when I walk (it lives in my purse otherwise). Also, a couple of songs popped into my head: Ani Difranco's In or Out, and Talking Heads' Burning Down the House.

I came home, made myself a drink and started typing. Only got about 500 words down, but it's a start. I know what it's about, but I can't say what it's about yet, since it's still forming. Yeah, there will be sex in it, because I am writing it, but it's about ... everything. Don't know if it will be any good, but it wants to be written.

Doing it in public...

Reading from "Another Chance."

...reading erotica that is.

This weekend I'll get a chance to read part of my just published story "To Bed" in front of a who-knows-how-big crowd at CatalystCon East. I'm also going to read an erotic poem. Someone asked me once, "how do you do it?" in reference to reading my erotic work in front of an audience. And I've thought about that a lot. [Duh, if you know me, you know I think a lot about a lot of things.]

I was one of those kids who would feel sick to my stomach if I had to get up in front of the class. Same thing in college. But when I became a mom, I suddenly found myself having to speak for my kids as well as other kids, and that was so important, that I found a way to squeeze past my fear of speaking in public. I led volunteer meetings for new & experienced breastfeeding moms for years. Spoke at conferences. But reading or performing your own work, your own words, is very different.

About twelve years ago I started going to a weekly poetry series. I was writing poetry at the time - lots of angsty stuff since I was dealing with some old issues, but not sharing it. Finally, after weeks of being asked if I wanted to read in the open mike, I got up the nerve to read a couple of poems. And I didn't go back for months it seemed like. But eventually I did go back. And eventually I got "used to" reading my work. Some of it.

Some stuff I wouldn't read. But I did share it with my writing group, and when we decided to form a performance troupe [I'd never "performed" really before], when we worked on picking which poems to do, it was my more erotic pieces that were favorites. So, I gathered up my thin threads of bravery into a ball and "went on the road" performing poetry, including some of those erotic poems. Off page, in front of people.

Reading at The Erotic Literary Salon in Philadelphia

Now, ten years later, reading poetry or my erotica in front of folks doesn't phase me at all. That's not me being all brave and shit, it's not that I don't get nervous. I do. But I've also read enough to know that it's important for people to hear this stuff read without shame. Thank you The Erotic Literary Salon.

Yeah. Shame. Our culture and society attaches such shame to anything to do with REAL sex, that some really weird things happen. We can have 10 story high advertisements on the sides of buildings for underwear [no sex there, just move along folks], but try to have a beautiful black and white photo of a naked couple curled up together on the cover of an erotica anthology, and that behemoth online book sales place has a conniption fit. If you look over to the right, on the sidebar (you may need to scroll), there is a picture of Susana Mayer's SenSexual: A Unique Anthology. Those are the images used on the combined Vol. 1 & 2. That's the images as they should be. These photos were done by Arnold Skolnick, who created the iconic Woodstock poster.

But then look here - at the heart that had to be added in order for this cover to be able to be listed. When the volumes are split up [to be sold separately], the one image was deemed too explicit.

What's wrong with this picture? A somewhat rhetorical question. ----->




And then the images had to be edited for inclusion in a press release [below]. ??? What is wrong with the world? Another rhetorical question.

What's this all have to do with reading erotica in public? Only this - we create our own shame. Once you've read something in public that bares some quite innermost thoughts, and THE WORLD DOES NOT END, and people actually come up to you and thank you for reading whatever it was you read,
you start learning that it's possible to make a small difference in the world.

I  have a real problem with shame. That sentence can and should be interpreted in many different ways.

When I read my story from Joan Price's Ageless Erotica on Saturday night, I will be wearing my FUCK SHAME necklace, of that you can be sure. And there will be pictures.

But first...

Last night I started writing a post that I'm calling "Gettin' it on again," but I got interrupted by a phone call and by the time I got off the phone, my train of thought was derailed. So I saved it in drafts to finish today. But this morning I took a walk and realized that I have to write this post before I go jumping back into doing this Erobintica thing regularly.

There's a reason I didn't update this blog for about five months. Reasons, plural, really. At first it was because I was working on a novel-in-progress. Also, I was distracted by various things going on in my life that were not blog fodder, and they overshadowed those things that were (erotica acceptances, for example). And then my self-doubt about being a "real" writer decided to raise it's medusa head (so many reasons).

But then, in December, something horrible happened, very close to where I live. Where I live. The word many of us use to describe everything that happened–and still is happening–is "surreal." We're just now peeking out from under the cover of shock.

I'm beginning to understand the phrase you have to redefine "normal." And for me that includes my writing. I was working on a novel. I've yet to be able to go back to it, because I don't want "all this" to become my characters' story. And also, old negative messages about creativity that I grew up with, came screaming back. So, for a bit, I was paralyzed.

Write erotica?
How the hell?
Write at all?
How?

The first few weeks of this year were pretty bleak. But I went searching out help, and wow, the things ya learn about yourself.

So, yeah, I'm starting to write again, and crawl out of my snail shell. And I know that nothing I write from here on out will be untouched. And I'm coming to terms with that. This isn't the first time I've had to come to terms with changes brought about by examining what lay behind me on my path.

I don't know how I've been changed. Only time will tell. And with that said, I can move on, at least here.

A new outlook

Yeah, if you've ever come here before, it looks a lot different now. I got rid of the black background, remembering a number of friends mentioning it was hard on the eyes. Robin's egg blue seemed appropriate to me. :-)

I'm updating links, now that I've got a number of stories in print and in e-books. I'm also trying to fix broken links. That'll probably take me awhile.

This isn't an "official" new post, but one will be coming soon. Been awhile.

Looking ahead

Yeah, most of my posts lately have been sorta down-in-the-dumpsish. It's all that quicksand and stuff. But, despite momentary (and yeah, maybe long moments) bouts of oh-woe-is-me, I'm actually kind of excited about what the future may bring.

I've decided to pick up and finish my languishing novels. Dammit, it's time I stopped being afraid of them and just write the fuckers. Yeah, plural. There are three of them. One was started about seven years ago. The other is 2-3 years old. The last one still just two separate stories with the same characters, those stories sort of egg and sperm about to meet. I still don't know what will come of this one, and it's what I'm most excited about working on. I'm actually going to (reallytrulypinkyswear) set up a routine where I go someplace and write for a set period of time on each day (well, most days) that will be purely for working on these. The idea scares the hell out of me, so I'm going right towards that.

There are other projects of my own that have been languishing too. They need to be picked up and dusted off. Then there is a big project that is not my own, but has unfortunately been somewhat open-ended and so not been kept on track. I met with one of my co-horts today and we're trying to figure a way to get this to not turn into something that never happens.

Yeah, I'm being vague, but I need to right now. I need to keep my focus unfocused, the better to see what's on the periphery.

A Door Closing

In May 2001, more than eleven years ago tonight, I walked through the door of an old train station turned art gallery where a weekly poetry series was held. Though I'd started writing poetry again (after quitting while in my early teens), I wasn't there to share any of it. It would take me awhile before I got up the nerve to do so. But I enjoyed listening to the other poet's works, and eventually became a "regular."

It changed my life. Over the years I went from being the woman who sat quietly over on the side, to reading, to performing, to hosting, to booking features, to pretty much running the series for a couple of years (which ended in Dec. last year). I'm no longer shy and afraid, though I still have major bouts of self-doubt. Duh. LOL.

I've half-jokingly called the series my "mental health night." Being able to write, and share some of it, helped get me through some dark times. I learned a lot about myself and about writing. Over the years I've had dozens of poems published and it was a poet-friend who gave me the nickname Erobintica, when I started venturing into the erotica world, after sorta kinda becoming known for my erotic poems.

Tonight is the last night of that series, though it's been in transition this whole year. I'm hosting and since it's been a bumpy transition, I'm not sure if I'm going to say anything or not. I may just introduce the feature, and later the open mike readers, and leave it at that. Most of the folks attending these days don't know the history of the series. And the series has been going much longer than I've been part of it.

I'm feeling waves of grief wash over me at random times. And it's not that I wish it weren't ending. I sense that it's been ending for several years. I jumped in and saved it once, partly out of my own need to have there be a place each week to go to. I let go at the start of this year because I wasn't sure when we'd be moving from here (and still aren't sure).

It's not like I'll be losing poetry. Last night I went to a wonderful reading and I'm still writing. But this is the end of something that I have already been missing.

There's that old when one door closes another opens saying that sometimes pisses me off to no end. Maybe because it's kinda true. It's just that it would be easier if we could see that next door. Usually we can't. Or we can but we're not sure if we're seeing the right door. Or we don't want to go through it. Or a thousand reasons for standing there like a deer in headlights.

The poetry world is funny. There's its cliques and critics and sad comedies. I have poet friends who aren't really talking with other poet friends. Usually over deeply held, though still-sometimes-petty reasons. I've always been the idealistic little child wanting diverse folks to see past their differences. The older I get though, the less hopeful I feel about that happening.

So, this afternoon I'm probably going to just read and take a walk and drink my beloved mocha.

Tonight, I'll hear the latch click shut on an era of my life. I wonder what the next door will open to.