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.