Venus In Furs

I had read de Sade's 120 Days of Sodom, and I loved it. It gave me a true sense of why the word sadism had its roots in his name.

I'd heard of Venus in Furs, and I knew that Sader-Masoch's name gave way to the word masochism. I came into the book with preconceived notions of what it was supposed to be, what it was supposed to do. I've just now left the book with higher hopes and spirits than I thought I would.

 If you've come to this book looking for hardcore pornography, you should just go to Kink.com's Divine Bitches.

I have to start off: the book, novella actually, moves at what I thought was a slow pace. Being the crass individual that I am, I thought Severin was a whiny bitch, and Wanda and flip-floppity fluffer Dominant. There is lots of crying from the former, and lots of wishy-washy love/hate from the latter.

There are many references to historical people at times, and even though I'm reading it for my own edification, I have to say I'd like to read it again and take notes. One of the biggest misconceptions about the book, is masochism. I'm not sure how to better phrase it... what modern day people see as a masochist, might only be seen as a facet of true masochism based on this book. Most of the masochism isn't physical, but emotional, which I found fascinating.

Depending on who you are, there could be some downsides to this book. If you're picking up a paperback version, I'd suggest being familiar with archaic words, or have the internet close by for quick googles of different things. I still haven't seen an effective image for the styles of furs that he finds so fascinating. Also, the way I've seen some of these movie posters and all that such... it looks a lot different from what was written.

I don't think that Wanda was a cougar, if I'm not mistaken, she was twenty-four at the start of the story, and even back then, that wasn't super old. And well, I don't want to give anything else away, so I'll try to steer clear of any further information.

There's just one curious thing I've noticed since just finishing the story... it hasn't technically loosened the bonds of my fingers. That's very curious indeed. I'll just continue to read some more fantastic literature and see where I'm led to next time.

Difficulties You Might Not Expect

I have to say, coming up with ideas isn't really my issue when it comes to writing.

I have way more problems with actually getting through an idea, and finishing it. When I look at so much of my writing, I'll get in far, 20, 30, sometimes even forty pages. I'll try to keep it up long and strong, and it'll fade back as quickly as it came on, and I'm stuck dribbling on about something I'm not quite sure was ever as good as I'd imagined it to be.

I think it's the reason that writing something, dare I say, novel length is intimidating for me. My play was originally supposed to be something novel length, and I know if I had continued trying to write it as something grand and pompous, I'd have forsaken it before I could go the full journey with my character. Now, I return to a novel, the very beginnings of some epic story, and I find that I don't know that character any more. She's grown into a wonderful and splendid human being (for all intensive purposes), and I still have her stuck at at basic level.

As for right now, I know that there is a particular story, well, a few, that I should devote time specifically to. I'm still learning how to actually sit and write something for two hours. I don't know if I'll ever be able to do it perfectly, but I know that I need to put in the time necessary for me to perfect my craft.

Trying to Read "The Hunchback of Notre Dame"

This is the most mis-titled book I have ever come across.

Unlike Frankenstein, which is free for my Kindle, The Hunchback of Notre Dame is a book you have to pay for. Granted, it's just under one dollar, but when money is tight, you do your best to save every penny. That's why I downloaded the PDF version of the book. I should probably make an entire blog entry about the Pros and Cons of having PDF files. This is, for sure, not this entry, this is specifically about the book.

I'll start by saying I'm a reader that's somewhat familiar with older English phrasing, reading it, and enjoying it. This book is not only in older English, it also has many Latin phrases, and historical references. This is not a book about Quasimodo. This is not a book about his life, his times or anything like that. This book is quite literally about the the world of Paris surrounding Notre Dame Cathedral. The French name for this book literally translates to "Our Lady of Notre Dame". I don't know who in their right mind decided that a good English translation of the title would center around one of the characters.

Quasimodo doesn't even show up in the book until 50 pages in. This book spends most of its time telling the reader about the world around Notre Dame, the streets, the buildings, the neighborhoods. It does mention some pivotal characters, but the characters lives haven't been as elaborated on as the steeples and bells.

I'm 200 pages in the book, and I've realized that I have to stop being a cheepie peepee and fork over the buck to buy the Kindle version. When reading this book, I feel like I need two things: a map of Paris, and a direct internet connection to look up the many phrases and historical people that are mentioned. Without them, I'm really not going to get all out of it that I want. I refuse to give up on this book; I love Gothic literature, but I never thought it would be this tough.But, for all the tough parts, there is a beauty in the world that Victor Hugo is painting, and a music to the sentences that just isn't found anymore.

I think, after reading it, I'll write a formal review, instead of just a review of how difficult it is. But I know that it's worth the work.

Reading About Writing, Trying to Write More

I've been reading Stephen King's On Writing.

I haven't finished it yet, but I've already read two places where I was--am lacking-- as a writer. Besides my horrible habit of having passive verbs (which I'm still not even sure I can identify while reading), the worst thing that I've done to my craft is not writing enough.

King suggests, at a minimum, to write two thousand words a day. Two. Thousand.

There's a short story (it's more like an elongated scene to be honest) that I'm writing, and as of right now, it's 1700 words. It has taken me three of four days to get up to 1700 words. I'm supposed to crank out more than that every day.

That's like five pages (regularly spaced) a day. If I write more than one page a day, I feel like a G, a super ultra mega G. Hell, if I really write five pages, it's surely not for the same story. It's like doing one of my stories that has an outline, and writing a bullet point a day.

That's really imposing for me. I have to admit, I have almost no discipline. I can barely spell the word. The worst thing, at least for my writing, is that I type up most of my stuff on a laptop that has the internet.

If there is any one particular thing that I can say fucks with my writing, and really helps me procrastinate, it's the internet. On my laptop, I can surf through thousands of pages of ridiculous stuff. It's not intentional, and sometimes reading other things actually helps my writing. For the most part, it just keeps me from doing what I need to do.

I think that I'm going to have to implement an entire routine just to make sure that I do everything necessary to increase my writing skills.

Today, I'm going to change the way my desk is sitting, so that it faces a wall, and while I'm having my writing time, there is no use of the internet. If I can't write, I'll read (I should read right now anyway instead of watching this documentary), and if  I can't read, I'll throw around ideas. For that entire period of time, I have to do what I need to do.

I think that's what i'm going to do, start getting my room together, to get my reading together, to get my writing together.

All this makes me want a blunt... but no! I'll smoke after I make some progress in my writing.

Deviant- A Story That's Part Poem

My first strike was probably the flirting.

            The second strike was giving him my number; saying that I wanted to “buy some of the art pieces”.

            The third strike occurred when I picked up the call from him.

            “Hello?” I didn’t recognize the number, but them again, it could have been one of my friends of someone else’s cell.

            “May I speak to Cat?”

            “Who may I say is calling?” I screened my calls, sometimes pretending to be my personal assistant. The male voice was familiar, but not one I readily recognized.

            “Maxwell Carter.”

            “Well, Maxwell, this is Catelynn.:

            “Pretending to be someone else?”

            “Not really, I didn’t know it was you.” I actually stopped writing, his voice making me smirk.

            “Now you know, and you like it, don’t you?”

            “Like what?”

            “Talking to me.”

            “Well, I could be writing right now, so you must have something important to say.”

            “I do. I’m in the City. I want to see you.”

            “What about Gabrielle?”

            “She doesn’t mind you seeing me. And we both know that you’re more my kind in private areas.”

            I chuckled and crossed my legs, loving his style and how he didn’t beat around the bush. “True. Where do you live?”

            “Sixtieth and Fifth.”

            “I’ll be there in an hour.”

            “Great. See you there. The towers penthouse. My doorman will know you’re coming.”

            “Nice. See you there.”

            When I finally got off the phone I turned and saw my roommate/best friend Jyll standing there.

            “Who was that?” She asked, grabbing some granola bars from the kitchen.

            “Gabriella’s boyfriend.”

            “The art dude. Cool.”

            “I’m going to his apartment right now.”

            “Giggity goo.”

            “Word. I’m probably going to bang him.”

            “Eh, yo no sabo. I’m not going to tell you what to do, but I’ll say you don’t want to mess things up with her.”

            “True. I just want to bang him, no relationships.”

            “Good for you. Have fun.” She smirked as I got up to take a shower. I knew what I wanted to do, and I didn’t care that he was in a relationship. If she was handling all her business, he wouldn’t have called me. That made me smile a little as I got dressed. I put on a nice pair of heels (fuck me pumps), a cute bra and panty set and an oversized shirt dress.

            It was enough clothes to look nice, not too much to take off/find. My hair hung down on my shoulders in messy layers. The cab ride from the Village up there was relatively fast, and I arrived fashionably late. His building was gorgeous, a classic design, with a few modern twists. I knocked on the door to find him standing there, smirking.

            “Hello, Catelynn.” Stepping out of the way, I went inside. I have to say the thing I was most curious about was his personal style. Some kind of guys loligagged, others tried to act as if we weren’t going to do it… very annoying stuff.

            “’Sup, Max. You have a nice place.”

            “Thank you. Care for a drink?”

            “I don’t drink.”

            “Weed?” He pulled out a ziplock bag three quarters full of some sticky icky shit.

            “What kind is it?”

            “Sour Diesel, super potent.”

            “Hell yeah. Got a pipe?”

            “No.”

            “Bong?” I was more hopeful.

            “I don’t really own any of those things. At least, not in NYC.”

            “Good thing I have Mergency Nipple.” I looked in my messenger bag and pulled out a small pink and yellow pope.

            “What?”

            “My pipe. Let’s get comfy.” I grinned, sitting on his couch, taking my shoes off and curling at one end.

            Maybe my openness shocked him, but he sat near me. I finally looked at what he was wearing, a t shirt and jeans, neat and nice. I liked that he sat close to me, like a friend.

            He turned to Music Choice, and I packed a bowl, taking a large hit, passing it to him so he could inhale as well. Even though he seemed to not so often, he only coughed a little, which is more than I could say.

            “So, you write and paint?” He asked, turning the music up.

            “Yeah.”

            “Did you like my gallery?”

            “It was fucking disturbing, and I could see some BDSM themes… pretty fucking awesome.”

            “Did you like me?” He put his arms around my waist and pulled me on to his lap. I laughed, kissing his lips playfully.

            “What do you think?” Our smirks grew as I slid off, and headed with him to the bedroom.

***

            My body pulsed with the high building inside my system. His hand was almost cool to the touch as I first saw his bedroom. It was gorgeous. Drapes hung like a cloth covered wall, the entire thing a window. The lighting came from special fixtures on the walls that gave everything a soft, pale glow.

            A king-sized mattress sat on the back wall; red linen was a little cheesy, but I couldn’t help finding it cute.

            “Niceness.” I chuckled, taking another deep hit before putting the pipe on his nightstand.

            “You’re incorrigible.” He slid the dress off my shoulders, letting it fall down around my ankles.

            “Thanks.” Gently, I kissed him, his lips soft, working with mine easily. I undid his pants, the button and zipper making a delicious sound. Once the T shirt was thrown to the side, I could see just how long his torso and body were, almost like Jack Skellington.

            Maxwell slid his hands around the perfect curves of my hips, kissing my stomach, small tickles making me laugh. That was, until he pulled them down, touching my clit gently with his tongue. Gasping, I quivered, my leg resting on his shoulder.”

            “Got dayum…” The words dribbled from my mouth, unexpected. Silently, I wondered if Gabriella had him do this to her. At the rate his tongue was going, I guess he was famished for pussy.

            Balancing as I clutched the footboard of the bed, his tongue made its way in and out of my pussy, the tip gently flicking my G spot. He really enjoyed the taste of my wetness, barely letting it actually come out before it was on his tongue.

            Randomly, his tongue sped up, touching it just enough to make me go crazy, building me up to an awesome oral climax. No words formed as I shuddered, every muscle in my body contracting fast. It was the best orgasm that I’d gotten from pussy eating.

            As he came back up, I held myself steady, looking at him, and his boner. Pushing him to the bed, I was fully prepared to do the same for him. As I headed down, his hands ran through my hair, gripping it tightly.

            “I don’t want you to.” His words came out a constricted mouth.

            “Well, maybe you need to tell your cock that.” I stroked it, feeling the odd tissue that made up the shaft.

            “He doesn’t listen too well.” Pulling me back up, I saw him reach onto the desk drawer for a condom. He didn’t have any issues with the next part, sliding it on his cock, and me over it.

            It wasn’t insanely long, around eight normal cock inches, but it was thick, and curved up towards his bellybutton. As I felt it slide into me, I held my breath unconsciously.

            Even though I usually would make a smart/sexy comment, for the first time in a very long time, nothing came to mind. Grinding into him slowly, I took my bra off, and let my hips move in whatever serpentine manner they desired. A low moan came from my lips, his hands on my hips, guiding me. When our lips locked, everything felt right. Maybe it was because his hands swept over my sides, or how he hit my G spot without fail.

            It didn’t last for too long, both of us enjoying it too much. I orgasmed first, biting my lip, trying to keep from grinding on him too hard. When my hips paused, his continued to pump, him cumming as well. It was strong, but I didn’t really feel it because of the rubber.

            Pushing off him, I smiled, and tried to catch my breath.

            “Wow…” I finally said, smiling, my skin still tingling.

            “You’re good. Really good.”

            “So are you… that was fun.” I sat up, about to look for my dress (underwear weren’t that important).

            “Where are you going?” Sitting up, I saw him light a cigarette.

            “I thought… after, I would leave.”

            “You don’t have to. Really, sit, smoke some more, unless you really have somewhere to go.

            Laughed, I leaned back, got Mergency nipple, turned to him, and threw my leg over his. “Better?”

            “Mmm… much better.” Laughing, his hand rubbed my thigh gently.

            “What are you doing here with me?” I asked, the talkative part of my high kicking in.

            He kissed me on the lips. “I’m having all the fun I can’t have with my girlfriend.”

***

            Catching a cab finally wasn’t hard; they seemed to be lined up outside.

            “Weehawken, please.” I said to the cabbie, sitting alone in the back, four fifty dollar bills in my pocket for the cab. The driver took off without a question or conversation, which was a good thing considering how exhausted and high I was. As far as looking different after fucking, my hair was a bit flatter, and all my makeup, save some lip gloss, was sweated off. It was hard for me to leave (I literally had to pull myself from his arms) but I had things to do the next day.

            By the time I got back home it was around 2 am, and my roommate was nowhere near sleep. Stumbling in, she sat on the living room couch, watching Animal Planet.

            “Dude,” she muttered, frosted shredded wheat sitting dry in a bowl, “these hippopotami are sick.”

            “I fucking love Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.” My smile, already Joker sized, grew larger, a giggle escaping.

            “So… how was it?”

            I screamed, jumping up and down. “He is amazing! Absolutely fantastic in the sack, a pot smoker, and he loaded.”

            “Um, isn’t that last one a little gold-diggerish?”

            “Hell no! I have my mown money, but when he wants to get me something, do you know how awesome the bong would be?!”

            She laughed. “Can someone say ‘fiend’?”

            I pulled out the half smoked sandwich bag, grinning. “Can someone say ‘you’re not getting a single puff’?”

            “…Fiend isn’t a bad thing.” I threw it at her, and she loaded a bowl as I went to take a shower.

            When I came out, she was schmaked, and I was ready to smoke some more. She was on Pandora, jamming to Panic at the Disco. The apartment bong sat in front of her, the smell of weed stuck in the air like the scent of friend foods.

            “Is there anything left?” I laughed, sitting down, lighting the rainbow glass piece.

            “Hell no, I smoked it all.” She tried to hide the bag, grinning.

            “Good, isn’t it?”

            “That shit is awesome, I ‘m fucked up son.”

            "As fucked as I feel."

***

            The art was gorgeous.

            Stunning.

            Provocative.

            Erotic.

            Lifelike.

            Everything art should be.

            Flat-ironed hair and a short black dress

            I was a Cat on the prowl

            Maxwell hadn’t seen me yet

            Or so I thought

            A hiding spot, the perfect niche to watch and not be noticed

            “You made it.”

            The voice behind me was smooth, charming.

            Max at his best

            “Gabby thought I’d enjoy myself.”

            “Have you?”

            “A bit.”

            “I can make it better.” He leaned against my backend.

            “Your girlfriend’s out there.” The dress rose up my thighs.

            “You look stunning tonight.” Kissed my earlobe, quickening breath.

            “I suppose you’re the same.” The people at the opening went on with their business

            “I suppose so.” I heard the gentle unzipping of his pants.

            “Are we going to do it here?” I breathed in faster, turning sideways, glimpsing him.

            “Right here; right now.” He slid my panties down as I looked at his art instillation.

            Backed my ass up as he put on a rubber and slid in.

            He moved slowly.

            I spread my legs and moaned quietly.

            Someone almost looked our way.

            His breath was on my neck

            Sexy.

            Fingers touched the boarder between two worlds.

            Too much noise and we would be discovered.

            Carter rubbed my clit in slow circles. Even with weak knees I was still up.

            Gentle thrusting.

            I came faster than him.

            Turned on by our public display of afucktion.

            He came when Gabrielle came close to the window looking with friends.

            Blissfully unaware of us fucking

            It was amazing.

Themes in Writing

I've realized stuff in my writing when I study literature and find themes in other literature.

With my stuff, it's usually themes of sexual deviancy, different cultures and ethnic backgrounds, and the healing power of marijuana.

It seems like everything I write, be it with creatures from the past, humans of the present or faeries of the future, those themes are apparent.

I don't know write the things that I do. Maybe it has something to do with the books that I read as a child that I could possibly blame for my choice of topics. I can't do something that would be considered truly young adult literature (Twilight) because it doesn't come to my mind.

If Twilight was my story, it would have had brutal sex in the beginning, Bella cutting the top of her breasts as she allowed the Cullen clan to suckle. There would have been at least one case of a Cullen orgy, and all those people with lovers would have had fantastic scenes of love. The girl that had Edward kill her lover, would have had him head popped off and burnt while he was laying in their bed basking in the afterglow with a ancient bong.

See, that's a perfect example of me as a writer.

I'm watching a fabulous movie called After Fall, Winter. It was absolutely beautiful. It's such a beautiful movie. So very beautiful. Totally made me cry just now, and I'm not a sap

Art Imitating Life

For anyone that writes, they know that whatever they read, come across, goes into their writing.

I know that many of the things that I've heard have come out in my writing. But sometimes, it's hard to blur the line between inspiration and copying life word for word. I guess that's where (if you're a fiction writer) you start changing stuff.

It always makes me laugh when people I know recognize scenarios and sentences in my work. It's always veiled, but you can read into it. Unfortunately, one of the hardest things about writing, is making sure that you don't use every detail. There are a few stories, which are based on... actual ideas that you shared. Then you really have to make sure to disguise the story as false. If not, a lot of backlash can happen, from many a place.

The Pearl Ring-- An Essay

            I’m not one that’s much for jewelry. I constantly wear a necklace, and I occasionally put something into one of the four holes in my ears. I especially don’t wear rings; it’s hard to find rings for sausage fingers. In fact, I only owned one ring.

            It’s wasn’t a fancy ring, but it was special. A single pearl sat in a gold band, with two small chips of diamonds on either side, like miniature bookends supporting it. There was a small dent in the bottom of the ring from something that I had done wrong. It was a simple ring, but it held special meaning to me.

            Pearl was the birthstone of both me and my mother. She was the one that bought it for me. Being only eight days apart, June was always a special time for us. I adored June, and our connection with each other. It was a special ring to me, but I rarely wore it, instead, it stayed in a heart shaped jewelry box on my mother’s night stand, along with her earrings and wedding band.

            I never worried about my ring because it sat next to her bed. Anything kept with my mother would always have a place. It would always be safe; I’d know where it was. I never thought anything about it because it was safe. That’s the same way I thought about my mother. I never thought about her as anything other than being there, because she was secure. She was my anchor, in so many ways; steady, beneath the surface, always there, always doing its function, and yet, so often going without the credit it is due.

            Especially to a bipolar teenage daughter finding her own way; a daughter that was much more into her own shenanigans and social life, than into what occurs with her family. She was like the pearl ring, I never thought of it not being there, because it never crossed my mind that one day she might not be there.

            But just as she is gone, so is the ring. After she died, I cleaned my mother’s side of her bedroom. It had been ransacked, robbed, violated in ways akin to rape. My mother was a packrat, but a neat one. Everything on her side had its place, and stayed in its place. The side of her bed that I cleaned was not the neat stacks that I had grown up with. Her neat piles were now shifting dunes. Her dresser had been rummaged through, her jewelry box missing beautiful pieces.

            The heart that had sat next to her bed for so many years, was gone in its entirety. I could accept her physical heart being cremated, in a box, but the idea of that porcelain heart no longer being in our apartment was something different. I wouldn’t have expected it to ever leave, it was an inanimate object, it couldn’t die. It held the pearl ring just as my mother’s physical heart held my love.

            But people, siblings, took her heart, because of its physical worth. Because they wanted money. They stole from the one person who would have gladly given her last to them. It’s hard for me to think of that ring, with its diamond chips and dented band, sitting in the window of a pawn shop.

            I wonder if someone bought it for their daughter, mother or lover. It wonder if that person was born in the moth of June as well. They probably don’t think of the memories that someone else had with it. If they think it might have been a mother’s present to her youngest daughter, the only daughter that shared her birthday month.

            I wonder what my brother and his girlfriend spent that $50 or $100 on, and if it was worth it. Do they even think about that money or that rings two years later? Did they even think about the emotions connected to it? I hope that it served them well.

            For them, it was only worth the amount of money they could get for it. For me, it was priceless, something I would give my lung to have on my finger just one more time.

Am I Feeding Sterotypes?

I've recently been reading about different stereotypes that are present with black people in literature.

The more I read about these stereotypes, the more that I'm afraid that I might have written my characters into said stereotypes.

Are the characters in my play noble savages? Is my female love interest a "magic negro"? Have I allowed myself to fall into the same pitfalls? Would an outside reader, or a critic see me as merely recycling things that have already been seen?

I know the worst thing I can do for my writing, is think about the cares of others, but I can't help it. I try not to, but it happens. I don't want it to happen, but it does.

But the deeper I look in to it, the more I can see so many of my characters can be viewed as some sort of stereotype. But... if I make my characters do everything possible to not be a stereotype, does that make them another stereotype in return?

I will have to look at my other stories, to see if these themes are permeating all of my work, or just some.

Fuck... I really shouldn't be criticizing my own work, especially if there will be hundreds of people doing that for me.

Making God a Character

Sometimes when writing, you have to take a seemingly limitless concept, and give it a form and tangible essence.

That's what I've had to do in one of my stories, to God.

It was really challenging for me, seeing how I would put an omnipotent being, a formless spirit, and make it physically exist. The one good thing about that particular story, is that it really has next to nothing to do with religion, and none of the characters are human, so I can just slide over that entire idea without any sort of mentioning of a particular belief system.

However, there is a scene, where the protagonist comes face to face with the Creator.

Because of the plot, and the very solid personification that I gave Lucifer, I had to do one that was the opposite, and yet, seemed more powerful. To be quite honest, the God in my story may be my favorite character to write.

If you ever have a chance to have a character have a talk with a being that is all knowing, the Alpha and Omega, do it. To know that one of the parties in the conversation already knows every word that is spoken, every idea flowing through the other's head, is fun. For the character, it's incredibly intimidating, although the form God decided to show Itself in was not one that was intimidating.

At this point in my life, the only book I've read where God is a character, with words, is the Bible. I've actually decided to download Paradise Lost on to my Kindle so that I have another source of ideas for God, although God in my story is already one that I know rather intimately.

I wish I was one of those writers that could go into great detail about the reasons why I chose what I did. I honestly don't know the reason why I chose what I did, or rather, I can't explain them in fancy literature talk. But I do know that I'm very much in love with my current form of God, and how It's working for my character.

Maybe after I read Milton, I'll have another opinion on the subject. But as for right now, all I can do is suggest to people to put God in their stories, if It fits, because it will be a very rewarding experience.

How Many Outlines is Too Many Outlines?

I've never been one to plan out my writing.

I've actually not planned it out so much, that it's rare that I get through anything that I was writing. It was my worst habit, starting something, having a great idea or scene, and then allowing it to fade off into the sunset.

It was a miracle that I finished my play, and I think the only reason I was able to finish that, was because it reminded me of bare bones. I'm still not good at writing very long pieces, and the full story for Elah is going to be an incredible feat.

This isn't about Elah, it's about outlining. I'd like to think that the play is something of an outline for the story, although there are large differences, and sub-plots that I couldn't even write in, I know where the story is going, and what kind of people the characters are.

The first story I've actually fully outlined is called Front of the Whorehouse. It's a fantastic piece, and it's so settling that I know exactly where it's going to go. I love that I know where it's going. With each page I write, I know I'm one page closer to the next bullet mark. With each bullet mark, I know that I'm one step closer to finishing the story. I love that idea, it lets me know that I have 70% more to write (and, maybe 100 more pages). It's not that staggering anymore.

But with that first outline, it made me go gung-ho, and I'm on an outline kick. I've written full outlines for five more stories. Five more full short stories.

I haven't even started these others, and I'm afraid to. I don't want to overwhelm myself with too many projects, but at the same time, I don't want to focus too much on one story, and have my creativity burn out with it. This is such a jacked up conundrum. Considering that I can only go through a few pages a day, if I'm lucky, it might be better for me that I try to spread myself a bit more.

For the moment, I'm just going to continue writing for this particular story as much as I can. I want to complete this, before I start putting all of my energy into something else. I'm trying to learn how to throw myself into my work.

I wonder if anyone else goes on an outline bender...

Well, I should get back to my work.

Do Not Mention 50 Shades of Anything To Me

Let me start by saying: I have, and will NOT read that book series.

If there's anything that I know a lot about, it's fan fiction. I've written fan fiction (mostly Harry Potter) since I was 13 years old. Sometimes, I still read fan fiction, enjoying alternate universes that readers can see the characters in. Hell, I also write it still, on occasion.

There are works of fan fiction that are great, such as the Cassandra Clare's Draco Trilogy, which I'm downloading as I speak. It is a masterpiece, this is not.

That is the immediate reason why I am not impressed by this series.

At first, it piqued my interest: BDSM in a series? Well sign me up for a copy! The first strike from the story, was that it was Twilight fan fiction. I read the first book, it was alright, but the culture that spawned from it irritated me to the point where I would refuse to read them.

The more I learned about the book, the more it irritated me. For one, it's not even a well written fan fiction. I've read excerpts on Evil Slutopia, and I can't help wanting to bash my head into the keyboard. The way that the character thinks, the way that the character responds, not to mention the Christian Gray... There are only two Mr. Gray's that I'd have anything to do with: Mr.E. Edward Gray from the movie Secretary, and Mr. Dorian Gray from his novel.

Not only do the characters annoy me, but the way the relationship unfolds annoys me. The story is an entirely inaccurate portrayal of Dominance and submission, and how it should occur. From what I understand about Christian Gray, he's no different that the hundreds (and I'm being quite literal) of Seme's that I've read in yaoi. Hell, I take Iason Mink over Christian Gray every time. Every time.

Unfortunately, every day, I'm forced to hear something about this moronic book, to see the author on day time television, to hear discussions about it. This book is not the Story of O, but people seem to put it in the same category (although I don't consider O to be erotica, but that's a different blog). This book just goes to show me that the state of literature in the world.

I do not want to sound like an asshole/hater, but I know I write better than that. My friends and I write better stories than that. Hell, we wrote better stories than that in our freshman year of high school. I just dislike that this book is seen as the bees knees, when it's really not.

I've heard from people that the book does have upsides; it's bringing to light BDSM, and having it discussed, is a good thing, especially for those that are shy about such things. I guess that's a good thing. Anything that opens up discussions is a good thing.

But this book is a Twilight fan fiction. That is badly written. That has been mentioned to me so many times that I make sure to let people know my feelings before even bringing it up. And for these reasons, I want nothing to do with it. Some people may think that I'm just talking a big game. I'm not.

I just realized something positive that this book has done: it's forced me to be even more diligent about my writing, so that I can show people what good erotica reads like.

Loss and its Effect On Writing

If there's anything that I've learned from experiencing death, it's that it definitely affects ones creativity. I know that when my mother died, it did something to my writing.

I didn't do any real reading, besides National Geographic and Smithsonian articles, and I really didn't do any creative writing. The one thing I did write extensively, was my diary.

In it, I was able to chronicle everything that was happening with my mom, with my family. It's not something I look back on. I avoid reading that particular diary because those emotions make me feel as if my heart is exploding. I've only written about it once, for a school project on the grieving process. My teacher told me she didn't read it, but she kept it as proof that I wrote it. I guess it forces someone to face the mortality of their own parents.

Anyway, back to it, and my writing.

Because of what I went through, I'm now able to effectively write about loss. It's not something I'm proud of, nor is it something that I've actually used much in my writing.

Not long after my mother died, I tried to write a piece about a girl whose identical twin was dying, in the same manner that my mother did. It was a story, beside the fact that the characters were identical twins, many people could relate to. It never panned out to be more than a re-telling of my mother.

I actually did use it, use my diary to write the death of a character in my teenage diary tale. I need now only to get the entries into order, and make sure it's a cohesive story, beyond the teenage shenanigans.

Another thing I noticed after my mother's death, was how I had written death before that time. I must admit, it was rather convincing. I had all of the "right" things, and it struck the same chords inside me, but it didn't have the same poignancy. It was merely me regurgitating whatever I had read before about loss.

Now... it's a reality that I've experienced oh too personally. It's made me rethink things that are important to my characters. I now make them face their own mortality more, and the mortality of their loved ones. I make them think of a world without that specific object of their affection. I force them to confront what I've confronted. I think it makes for multidimensional characters, which is always a good thing.

I wonder if anyone out there has really put their loss to work for them. I'd love to know...

Putting in my 10,000 hours

I've read that in order to truly master something, you must put in 10,000 hours of work. That is a daunting task, even for the most dedicated writer.

It is even more daunting when I feel I am not meeting my potential.

I've made several mistakes, things that I should know better about:

• I've neglected my reading. Recently, the only thing that I've read was The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle. It was a beautiful book. It made me cry, it was stunning, it's a book that I would read to my brats if I;m ever to have any. I read another novel, but it wasn't the type of that I usually read. Those two books, and a slew of National Geographic and Smithsonian magazine articles. I used to read hundreds of pages a day.
• I'm not writing the way that I usually would. I get through a few pages a day. For me, putting in a solid hour is a miracle day that would go down in the annals of history. I know I shouldn't judge myself based on what other people do, but I know that if I want to be a professional, and taken seriously, I must put in the hours.
• I misuse my Kindle. I knew, deep down inside, that there was a reason that I wanted to e-reader kindle, and not the Fire. With the fire, I've only read a few books, but I play a lot of awesome games. But getting perfect scores in Bubble Blast, or figuring out the puzzles in 100 Levels. I think I will read Uncle Tom's Cabin, since I have it.

I'm not sure what I should do. I think that I will set a schedule for myself, especially while looking for a job. I need to look for somewhere to publish my writing. If I find somewhere, I'll definitely put a link to it up here.

Untitled Love Poem

Sometimes when I’m alone

I whisper your name to myself

I look to see how it rolls off my tongue

To see if it give me electric currents

Deep through my core

When I really love someone

I do not want to kiss them.

I want to lick their tongue and taste their insides

Their lips are like two uncooked chunks of chicken breast

Sans the salmonella.

Sometimes I want to know what you’re thinking

And see what goes through your mind

I wish your thoughts were projected

Onto the wall you stare at

So we may enjoy them together

I want to let you know what I’m thinking

To confess each though that passes through my mind

To let you know even the ones I try to pretend don’t exist

But I’m afraid

No one is privy to the entirety of my mind

I wonder what I should call you

If there is a title for what we do together.

Are we fuck buddies? I like that phrase

Because it makes me feel as if we’re friends

But wee are not friends,

Not really

I’d never call you boyfriend.

We’re not teenagers in high school

I think I’ll just call you by your name

Since it has become my favorite word.

I Love You-- A poem

I love you

I love you deeper

I love you longer

I love you harder

I want you

I want you deeper

I want you longer

I want you harder

I want to please you

I want to please you deeper

I want to please you longer

I want to please you harder

You are the center of my universe

You are the center of my being

You are the meaning of my existence

You are my reason for being

I am yours

I am yours deeper

I am yours longer

I am yours harder

Use me

Use me deeper

Use me longer

Use me harder

With your touch

With your word

With your caress

With your glance

You control me

You control me

You control me

You control me

I am intelligent

I am crafty

I am beautiful

I am orgasms incarnate

I wish to please you

I wish to serve you

I wish to enjoy you

I wish to love you

Pull me

Use me

Slap me

Bite me

I am yours

I love you

I love you

I love you

Passions or Money: The Choice of my Major

Let me put this first and foremost: writing is my passion. I've woken up days, and immediately reached for my pen and notebook. However, writing, does not make money so quickly. That is where my collegiate major comes in. The monetary gain of my associates degree in English, seems almost like a waste of college for me. Honestly, thus far into my college career, it has done absolutely nothing for the writing that I truly enjoy doing. Granted, I have learned how to properly do a MLA citation, but that does nothing for my quest to correctly delve deeper into my character's psyche. Besides that, I haven't seen a way to make enough money, to afford to go to college. It sucks one thousand times over.

But, the college that I has chosen to go to, I had picked because it had a Veterinary Technician program. If there is one thing that is from me, besides my writing, is that I love animals. Hell, even in my writing, most of my characters have pets of some sort. And becoming a vet tech would have a lovely sum of money coming in, and I would be able to work with animals every day of my life. That is a beautiful prospect in itself. But, I refuse to look at the world through rose-colored glasses. I know that a life of working with animals is not just happy time with cute puppies. It would be a life that would be straight out of Animal Cops. I currently cannot wrap my mind around the concept of watching the death of animals each and every day simply because of human neglect and abuse. Seeing animal that may not make it out of the hospital, through no fault of their own. I know each day I would come home crying for God knows how long.

It's so hard for me to imagine doing the latter, but it seems to be the best path for me. Unlike writing, which is, shotty at best, it is a career where I will be able to work with things I truly love. My dad tries to convince me to work with people, but I just don't like people that much. No offense, but I'm an animal person. I know that I'll clean up vomit and feces from an animal, more quickly than a stranger. And, I would have downside, when at home, to write, and focus, and have money to do whatever I needed to survive in New York City. And, once I do begin to become published, I will be able to go back to school to pursue my English degrees up to doctorate school. I still write my fiction everyday, I'm trying to get back on my reading flow, and stop using my Kindle for games and Facebook. I've really been heavily working on writing out outlines for stories. It makes me feel so secure knowing exactly what I'm trying to do. As of right now, I'm working on an outline of Elah, the novel version. It's so crazy for me that I cannot completely trust the play as the story outline. They really have small story lines and arcs, and paths that cannot be fully explored on the stage in a limited time setting.

See, ugh, this is why I wanted to be a writer... I thought school would help with all that. But it hasn't. Nor has it offered a way for me to make livable moolah. Therefore, I've decided to change my mind from my a degree in reading, and actually do something meaningful with my life. Will it stop me as a writer, hell no, and it can only benefit me, once I wrap my brain around it.

My Little Pony Fan Fiction

I used to wonder what friendship could be...

Yes, this is a post about My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. I had to take a break from all of the dead girl editing, and, as of right now, there's only one thing that my fingers seem to want to write: pony stories.

I must say right now, before I get any further: I believe that everyone should watch MLP:FiM. It is such an amazing show, and a cartoon that is better than a lot of the junk that is being fed to kids today.

I put MLP on the same level as the Powerpuff Girls. And I love PPG. Anyway, back to what I was saying: I am currently working on my very first piece of Pony fiction, a very short story called Luna Lover. It is a story containing my original pony character, Stella Nova, a unicorn/zebra hybrid writer meeting her favorite princess.

As of right now, it's not shipping (sexual pairing), however, because it is my writing, there is a very, very, very good chance that it will go that direction. The only thing I know, is that this first part is just establishing the relationship between the two, very much like the relationship between Princess Celestia and Twilight Sparkle.

As Soon as this first part is complete, I will publish it here, and on as many pony boards as I can find. I can't wait to show this piece to the world, and my blog readers.

Wish me luck, y'all

Editing Sucks

"Writing is mostly rewriting"

Well, in my case... un-writing

At this moment, I'm sitting in my bedroom, at my makeshift writing table, listening to Pandora, specifically my Wicked channel, jamming to "A Whole New World". I'm not really feeling it at this moment, but I'm far too lazy to waste a skip on a song that I can now imagine sexually. But I'm digressing...

I'm having issues writing. Well, not really with writing, but with the editing process. I finished a long essay/short story entitled The Dead Girl. I loved it. I silently celebrated by myself that I actually had the discipline to finish it. I was walking around like a damn superhero afterwards, especially since it's in a format that I really don't like to write fiction in: first person, present tense.

It wasn't that long, in terms of the time span of the story. Maybe a 24 hours in protagonists (after)life, give or take. I've spent days trying to make this scene make sense. For me to edit a train of though narrative, I have quite a few steps that I go through. I'm going to list them, just so you know the stress that I've had on my noodle/eyeballs:

1. Now that I've completed the story (^-^), I send it via email, to my household Mac.
2. Now, the Mac can do something that my PC can't. I can look at both documents at once, and not have them undersized. This really comes in handy.
3. Once they're side by side, I bring up my camera, and record myself reading it aloud. There, I catch the first minor mistakes.
4. I'm retyping during step 3. Now that I've recorded, oh say, three minutes, I listen to it, and do more pruning and editing.
5. Repeat for all the pages

That took two days, taking in to account sleeping, eating, and general internet browsing moments. I thought I was a happy camper, proud of how it sounded. So proud was I, I was finally able to show someone else, a trusted critical friend.

Anyone who writes for the joy of it knows that you start catching more mistakes once you send it to someone else, then you feel like a dick for sending such a raw product. I was told that the voice of the narrator was a combination of me and William Shatner. Although that statement made me LOL, it also made me see how much I really needed to do in order to make it sound better. I went through it, pulled out more words and sentences, streamlining it more. After the first page, I sent the re-edited, revised version, and was told it was better.

I couldn't handle looking at The Dead Girl again for a few days, so I went away from her. I did some outlining for other stories, wrote a few sentences here and there for pieces that I hadn't looked at in a while. I spent a lot of time just being a lazy bum, I shan't lie. I even had some time hanging out with my cousin. Today however, I've decided to give this editing another crack.

Last time, I pulled 1000 words out of the story. I had been warned by author Simon van Booy that the majority of editing for me was going to be paring down. I didn't realize just how much this would blow until doing it with this piece.

It's really... intimidating. I get overwhelmed. It's like, damn, I spend at least 15 minutes per page, reading, re-reading, taking out sentences, words, rephrasing, the reading it again, trying to make it sound better, and I know that it's just the beginning. I haven't even gotten into the meat and taters of the story. I'm still setting up the plot.

It feels like it will never end.

Sometimes I don't know what to do with myself when I get into this mindset, and I get really depressed, and just want to run as far away as possible from my laptop. My career choice begins to feel like my enemy.

But... I've mad a resolve. Whilst looking for a job this summer, I'm going to spend as much time as possible writing, editing, putting together pieces that I will proudly share with the world as my own. When I get sick of looking at one piece, I will move on to another, and keep on keeping on. I knew that this would be a difficult choice, but I shall continue laboring in the vineyard, for I know my harvest will be the sweetest fruit.

Right now, I'm going to brew a nice pot of coffee, listen to more music, maybe switch to some classical music, see if it sparks any brain cells.