It’s On . . . So Keep Going

Well, this is sort of anti-climatic.

Today I was up about 6 AM.  I hopped on the computer and brought up my things and prepared to spend a few hours watching my story, the one I worked on through August and September, to spend a few hours getting put thought the grinder for epublication.

It was over in about 3 minutes.

Don’t get me wrong: seeing my story Kuntilanak (and, yes, I am going to pimp this sucker.  Read it and you will find enjoyment) appear on Smashwords makes me more happy than you can imagine.  Seeing “Copies sold” turn to greater than zero will make me feel even more happy.  But I had this feeling of, “Yes, I will see it being turned into something–” and when it just popped up and said, “Here I am!”, it gave me just a little of a feeling of . . . hard to say.

I think that, right now, I’m just sort of shocked.  And if this starts hitting Amazon and Barns, I’ll be even more shocked.

So rather than be shocked, lets think about the future.

I’ve been working on my erotic story as a way of getting back into the swing of writing for the genre, and I’ve been considering whether or not I should go the same ebook route as I’ve gone with my current story.  And the more I think about it, the more I realize that all I really need to do with the story is format it and get it a hot cover (woo hoo!) and then put it up for sale.

And that is really what I’m thinking of doing.  Because, what better way of getting your name out there then putting out a story about a couple that is trying to push boundaries.  They want to push them sexually; I want to push them by telling their story.

Yesterday I spent a lot of time writing, and 2000 words were expended talking about erotica and BDSM; 1400 of those were for a guest blogging piece.  This last was a collaborative venture and very, very enjoyable, ’cause I was able to speak with someone in England and get her views on BDSM and put them together with mine, and this became another conformation that I can converse in many different genres.  Later in the day the person editing the piece IMs me with a very simple comment:  “This is fuckin’ fantastic!”  Yes, my day was made.

Because we need that ego stroke.  And for me, with everything totting on the edge at the moment (yes, I am not working; yes, I have no income coming in; yes, there is great fear I will loose a lot), I feel vindicated.  I feel like I’m really, finally starting to hit a stride as a writer.  Maybe some would think I’d doing strange shit and wank pieces and the like, but I feel that some of the stuff I’m writing, the stuff I’ve written and the stuff I will write is going to resonate with people.  I think my horror will touch people; I think the story I’m currently working on will do the same with others, but in a very different way.  I mean, who doesn’t like pleasing others?  Who doesn’t like sex?  Who doesn’t like bondage and fetish clothing?  Anyone?

So why not?  Why not take it and put it out there for someone to buy?  Why should I keep everything I do to myself?  Isn’t the idea of writing to put things out there for others to read, to allow them to see what goes on in your head?

Sure, why not?  After all, if Stephenie Meyer can touch a significant portion of society writing about sparkling douchebags and emotionally shallow Lego bricks, maybe I can touch people who want to get into the head of a woman going through an orgasmic urination.

 

By the way:  last night saw my 2000th hit.  Yes, I have readers!  Yay, me!

Keep it coming, my pretties.  You make it all worth while.

The Next Step

First up . . . Well, today should be it.  Today should be the day I put my just completed ghost story set in Bali up on Smashwords.  The account is ready, the story is formatted, the cover is done.

To be honest it’s scaring the shit out of me.

I realize that going the self-publish route is a crap shoot.  I realize that nothing whatsoever might happen.  I also realize that I could spend the next few months shopping my story around and not get a single nibble.  So, what the hell?  Jump in feet first and see what happens.  At worse I don’t make a dime.  At best my stuff ends up becoming a hit, and people start downloading my story to their Kindles and Nooks and iPads and clamoring for more.

Hey, I wanna be read and loved.  I can have both, right?  Maybe after this I’ll write about an evil lamp–actually, no.  I already have a couple of WIPs in mind.  One is my very first attempt at a novel, and the other is what I’m calling my alternate reality paranormal steampunk novel, and if that isn’t a mouthful, then you haven’t eaten a lot of late.

They are ready to be whipped into shape . . . all I gotta do is get my dom face on.

And speaking of dom faces, here’s Second . . .

Last night I was working on my erotic short story.  I’d been vacillating over the current scene because . . . well, it goes somewhere that a lot of people might find distasteful.  As some might say, “It ain’t normal sex”.

Then I realized I was being a prudish jerk, slapped myself across the face and started writing.

Here’s the heads up on the scene–and I’m gonna use dirty words here, so if you have sensitive eyes, scroll past really fast, okay?

Ready?

The woman in the scene is pretty much naked; and she’s blindfolded with her arms bound behind her.  She’s very aroused and, needless to say, is ready to get down to business.  She’s also in need of urinating, because the man who brought her back to his place gave her three large glasses of water before they arrived at the point their are now.

So at the moment she’s standing in the bathroom, unable to find her way around without assistance . . . and instead of being set upon the commode so she can do her business, she’s being kissed all over, with special attention given to her neck and breasts.  And while she’s really feeling the pressure in her bladder, she’s feeling all the attention as well . . ..

Needless to say, she will get to relieve herself.  And if you think it’ll be a simply case of tinkling and being done, you haven’t been paying attention, have you?

Okay, done.  Back to the normal insanity.

I’m writing erotica, and that means I’m going to go places that a lot of people might not go.  Face it: sex is suppose to be fun as well as being an adventure, and if you and your partner are of a mind to trying different things, then go for it.

As far as what I’m writing being out of bounds . . . hey, I’m just like Captain Jack Harkness.  No, I’m not hot and bangin’ everything that moves, but rather, I’m not an “out of bounds kinda guy”.  You wanna have good erotica, sometime you have to places that would be out of bounds for most people.  And not worry about it . . ..

And that brings me to Third–

If there is anything that tells me not to worry about what I’m writing, that’s that, this morning when I first got up, I knocked out (or should I say, “banged out”, yuck yuck) 1400 words on the subject of how to introduce BDSM into your relationship.  Now, I am not an expert in the field, but I have some knowledge in this area and I was kind enough to speak with another person about it, put together some notes, and write an article.

And lets face it, kiddies: if you’re going to give tips on how to bring up the subject of bondage and discipline with a partner who has no freakin’ idea what you’re talking about, writing about a woman struggling with the possibility of having an orgasm while she pees is very small potatoes.

Lets all go there.  It doesn’t have to be erotica; it can be horror; it can be science fiction; it can just be your fracking life.

But you need to go there.

You need to take that next step.

And you need to do it now.

Centenial

When I started fooling around with this blog a few months before, in the waning days of Spring (4/13/2011 was my first post, where I just had a few warnings for my dozens of readers), I never intended for it evolve into what it is today.

In fact it was almost dead on arrival: I had very little posting in April, not a bad May, and then I just died in June.  Too much personal bullshit hit me, depression set in, I didn’t feel like writing . . . yeah, it was all there.  I wanted to give up in many ways, and there are still days when I feel that way.

But I kept on, because I really, truly decided to not only write, but I was going to write about what I was writing–due in part to someone bitching at me to get my ass in gear and write!–and that very act evolved into something incredible for me.  Not only because I told people about what I was doing every day, but because it started to open my eyes to other things in my life.

So here I am, 100 posts later, and what do I know about myself now that I didn’t know 100 posts back a little after noon on 4/13?  A lot:

 

I hate the business world.  Yes, I know: I’m looking for a job–have been for almost three years–but I hate that part of my life.  Those 25 years in IT were wasted, man; they were fucking wasted.  I thought that getting into IT would allow me to use my intelligence and creativity.  It did jack shit.  It exposed me to small minded individual; jackoffs who were crazier than me; and self-important little people with over-inflated egos.  And what I will carry with me for a very long time was having a meeting with my last company’s CFO, Alan the Butthole, and how he got pissed off because I was taking notes on a computer table, pulled it out of my hands, and laid a pad of paper and a pencil in front of me and said he expected me to take notes that way from now on . . . thanks for the most condescending moment of my life, Alan–and, should you somehow find this post, you’ll now know how close you came to having that pencil shoved up your ass, you stupid nimrod.

I shouldn’t be ashamed of the fetish fiction I used to do for the hell of it.  Yes, a majority of what I wrote at the beginning of the 21st Century was crap.  Yes, it was going to be wanked to by a lot of people.  Yes, it put me in touch with a few people who should remain well hidden.  But . . . it taught me to write.  It taught me to create characters and stories and not settled for simply churning out crap for the lowest common denominator.  I’ve shown a series of stories to my Trusty Editortm and they liked what I wrote, even though they’d never seen anything like that before.  And, like it or not, it was me.  It was something I did and, for a while, enjoyed.  I learned that I could write funky erotica, and right now I’m working on an erotica short that, believe it, is gonna get freaky–and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I am a writer.  I really am.  Not because I write, but because . . . I have been paid!  Just a few weeks ago I was given $40 for four of my old fetish stories, so . . . yeah, Cash Money Brothers, baby!  I’ve been given compensation for my work and I’m happy.

And along those same lines, I’m nearly ready to publish my short horror story on Smashwords.  Yesterday saw me doing the final ebook formatting, and today I’m going to work on a cover for my 24,200 word story, but it is going to become an ebook and it will be bought by someone, and that means a lot to me.  Not to mention I will pinp the hell out of it here.

And I will continue to write.  I have the first novel I ever tried in Scrivener and I have another WiP set up as well, and I am going to damn well do those stories.  I’m through screwing about, and if I’m going to do this writing thing, then fucking do it.  If nothing else I’d publish the damn things myself and make a nice little living on my work, because while it would be nice to be the next Big Thing, often the next Big Thing is writing crap, and I’m not interested in writing crap: I wanna tell good stories with good, believable characters.  When I decide I’m only going to write for a paycheck, then it’s time to stick a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger until it goes click.  I’m not a monkey; I’m a writer.

I’m bi-polar, and I’ve been that way nearly my whole life.  It sucks, it really does, and until you’ve been on a long run of depression you can’t imagine what it’s like.  I have been suicidal, and I was once committed because I was very close to ending it all–again.  I deal with it because I must.  Mental illness is a bitch and fight it every day, usually alone, but I still fight it ’cause I’m just not ready to check out.  Not yet.  And damn sure not today.

I have secrets.  We all do, but recently I told two people a secret I’ve had for most of my life, and in doing so I feel a hell of a lot better about myself.  Is it something I’m going to tell everyone, right now, on this page?  No.  I’m not quite there yet.  But I’ve told people who I know, who had no reason to believe I would tell them this, and they didn’t run screaming into the night.  And that makes me believe there is hope.

I’ve discovered that people do care about me.  They really do.  Sometimes we live in this bubble of crushing, oppressive loneliness, and when you hook that up to any form of mental illness then, hell, folks, you’re just looking for a bottle of pills from which to jump.  But I am not totally alone.  I have people around me that care, and that care goes deep.  And for that I thank you.

And excuse me a little ranting, but:

For my Facebook friends who have nothing better to do than bitch about their horrible social media experience due to a change in said social media’s portal–and you know who you are–leave, just leave.  Abandon your accounts and get the fuck out, and stop whining like the bunch of entitled children that you are who believe the Internets should revolve around your every whim.  And for that group of friends who spent days posting the bullshit meme that Facebook was going to start charging–you’ll never know how close I came to hunting your butts down and going Robocop on your asses.  Deal with change.

And, lastly, and more personally–Jill Bridges, in Michigan.  Yeah, you.  Maybe someone–well, two of us, anyway–are smart enough not to be your friend because you have all the charm, grace, poise, and personality of a syphilitic hyena.  So, in closing: blow me.  And you know why.

 

I started this blog as a place where I could come and rant.  And now it’s something . . . different.  And that’s because in the course of 100 posts I’ve become someone different.

Where am I going to be in another 100 posts?

Stick around and find out.  You might be surprised.

And There Will Come Soft Rain–

Today is one of those days that simply brings the peace.  It’s been raining since late last night, and it’s one of those light but steady rains that whisper in the background.  You can hear it outside the windows–which you can totally have open–and it lulls you into a state of blissfulness unlike any you could experience outside of a great session of love making.

Sure, you wouldn’t want to commute to work in this–and if the traffic reports from Chicago are any indication I’m in the very small minority of those who love this sort of weather.  On days like this you and your significant other can get on your comfy pants (or skirts, if you of that mind) and pullovers and snuggle up.  Or just stay in your pajamas and wile away the time in bed.  And if you have a laptop, so much the better, because you or them and both can live blog the experience.

It’s times like this I do wish I could do that, ’cause moments like these are fleeting, and time grows short.  To sit in the cool air, the soft rain outside your open window, a warm body beside you . . . it can get better, but that’s a hell of a start.  It’s the sort of scene that people write about, that they fantasize about, that they wish for with all their hearts (some of you might be Gallifreyan, so I don’t want to discriminate).  And yet, it’s one that rarely comes to us.

Why is that?  Is the world so imperfect that you always have to settle for what you get, and not what you need?  Why can’t I have a moment like this, where I’m in bed with my laptop, and someone is cuddled up next to me watching me write these words, and both of us are loving moment?  Why can’t you have someone who shares your love with the same passion, who shares your same ideals, who not only wants to share your fantasies, but has a few she’d love to share with you?  And those fantasies don’t need to be erotic in nature, but damn it all, that would be fun, wouldn’t it?

I mean, as with my short erotic story I’m writing for the hell of it, I’m done with the foreplay and ready to move on to the “good stuff”, so to speak.  What I see in stories like this I want others to see as well, and . . . well, you know.  People aren’t always going to be in line with what you see and like.  I’m sure there’s a couple of scenes in this story when they are read some people will go, “Damn, really?  You went there?”  That’s the idea, dude: go there and take someone with you.  And while many might not dig the trip, you’re going to have a few who slide up to you and say, “Yeah . . . that hit the spot.  Thanks.”

Many years ago I read a fanfic about a woman who found herself trapped in a fetish outfit she was unable to remove, and for some reason it resounded to me.  It wasn’t all that particularly well written, but something in my head turned this mild horror story around into something far different.  What if the person wanted to be trapped in something like that?  Not because it was this kinky-ass get off for her, but because she found something in being bound into such an outfit that it permanently filled a deep seeded desire?

And what if she could find someone with whom to share that desire?

If you’re read this blog for any period of time you’ll know how I feel about whingy latex wearing bitches, but of late I’ve had this fantasy.  In it there is a woman who is new to any sort of fetish play, and so, for a day, I take her and encase her in a very lovely latex catsuit that leave only head head exposed.  For the day she’s showing her body to me, but . . . not really, for while I see it, I don’t really see what’s under her rubber skin.  I can touch her, but I’m not really touching her.  She’s exposed, but . . . not really.

I want it all to play with her notions of how she views herself, and how others view her.  In particular one person . . ..

Of course she wouldn’t be trapped in that outfit forever.  But perhaps she’d want to be trapped another way–with someone who help feed her fantasies, her wants, her desires.  She already understands that the sensual and erotic are mental, and that physicality is greatly enhanced by a strong imagination.  And once she took this step into another realm of sexual enticement . . . well, you know the rest.

There’s no turning back.

Soft rains bring these sort of thoughts.  They let you relax and stretch your mind.  They bring a different sensation to one’s libido.

What they don’t bring is that other person who’ll share everything with you, perfectly, forever.

Ah, but isn’t that just one more fantasy we can all try to make real?

Tiptoeing About the Fantasy Realm

Write erotica . . . do you guide it, or does it guide you?  Do you have these thoughts in your head, or does it make things happen in your subconscious that aren’t normally there?

Am I driving the fantasy, or is it creeping into my reality?

It’s all very strange for me.  When I used to do fetish fiction I never became excited by it.  Oh, I mean, there was some interest in the back of my head, but the story was really my focus.  I used to get told all the time, “You must get turned on a lot when you’re writing this,” and my answer was always, “No.  Never while I’m writing”.  Which was the truth: I never became excited when I wrote erotic fetish fiction.

And why is that?

Very simple:  do you have any idea how hard it is to write?

Let me rephrase that:  do you have any idea how hard it is to write anything that has a plot and characters that are good and some semblance of a story?  Yes, after years of reading other fiction in the fetish realm it’s easy to see that if it’s a person’s intention to write wank material, then hell, yes, anyone can do it.  There’s tones of it out there.

With my current story, I think the reason I don’t find it “exciting” as I write it is because I’m spending so much time getting everything write that I don’t have time to get horned up.  Yes, I realize I sound like Sgt. Harris going about making his porn movie for a NYPD sting, where he’s more concerned with the sets and cinematography than he is about the actual sex, but that’s me.  If I’m getting the mood and feel and characters right, then it’s gonna be muy atractivo.

But does that mean I’m getting sucked into my erotica at other levels?  I’m thinking . . . maybe.

I’m heading into TMI Territory now, so if you want to bail you can . . . oh, yeah, like if you’re reading this you’re not interested in this part of the story–ha!!

 

 

 

Let’s move on, then–

 

 

 

I finished up some writing last night–probably 500 words getting into the foreplay of my characters in my erotic short–and it was off to bed.  I feel asleep quickly, although sometimes I get into these fugue states where I can’t actually tell if I’m asleep and dreaming or awake and fantasizing, so for all I know I might have been lying in bed thinking about this.

Anywho . . . I was dreaming/fantasizing/imagining being with someone I know, a very lovely person, and she was doing . . . things to me.  Very nice things.  The sort of things I’m kind of writing about in my short story.  The sort of things that culminated in what is known as “Woman on top position” followed by lots of craziness and finishing with her collaping onto and hugging me contently–

Well, now . . . that’s the sort of dreams I could stand to have more.

Now, I’d be happy if that were just that . . . but my mind was apparently working in over-drive last night, ’cause the fantasy fest wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

My friend came back to me–at night as before, in bed as before, and in a state of undressitude.  And she was back doing nice things to me . . . only the words were a little different this time, the tone a little softer, and the phrase, “You’re my pretty girl,” was repeated over and over.

Maybe that’s because, in my dream, I was her pretty girl.  And what we were doing–it all felt really good.

Oi . . . where does my mind go?  I know there are a ton of fantasies up there, and it seems like, of late, they’re all starting to dance around where I can see them.  How will this affect my writing?  In good ways, I hope.

And how will it affect my life.

One can only hope as well as it does my writing.

It’s all good, you know.

Smut, Porn, and Erotica Blogging

A phone call has made me wonder about who I really am.

Well, one did, and it wasn’t the one I had yesterday where a woman who constantly calls my mobile by mistake begin by saying, “All I’ve ever done is try to be nice to you–” and launched into a 2 minute tirade intended for someone who obviously wasn’t me.  I listened, and when it was over I replied, “That’s all well and good, but you’ve called the wrong goddamn number once again!” and hung up.  It was about as close to a Danny DeVito moment as I was ever going to get.

No, the phone call I’m talking about came the other day.  A friend I attended school with calls to see how I’m doing.  I was doing well; just getting ready to eat and all that.  And then he tells me he’s checking out my Facebook page and it looks like someone’s hacked it because there’s all these porn links on it . . . I thanked him, so after the phone call was over I went and checked my page, and it was the way it always was–which is to say, boring.

There were, however, links back to this blog.  And that made me wonder: was he checking out my blog?

I talked to a couple of people about this and they were like, yeah, maybe he read a couple of posts and thought I was running some kind of porn site, and by linking it to Facebook I was maybe doing something I shouldn’t?  After all, one of his concerns was that I should tell people my site had been hacked and I apologized that people were getting links to porn–

That would be well and good if I were doing porn.  Or linking to porn.  Or even writing about porn.

And I do none of that.

I never realized when I started this blog that I might actually write something or do something or say something that someone might find . . . different?  Objectionable?  Strange?  I mean, I am a strange dude, but pretty much harmless–sort of.  You had to know me in high school, I guess . . ..

I write, or at least I try to write.  I do some horror, I do some science fiction, and I have written erotic/fetish fiction.  More and more I don’t feel all that bad about the later; it was something I kept hidden for a very long time, as if it were a dirty little secret I had to keep to myself for fear of harming others.

However, I’ve been getting a lot more open about that.  I’ve blogged about my adventures in fetish writing, and commented on some of the individuals I’ve encountered over the years.  In the last few months I’ve made a number of friends in the erotica writing biz, and I find they had issues where people sort of freak out when they find out what they do, so I suppose I shouldn’t get too worried when someone does the same with me.

In fact, I should probably feel good about it, because it says that maybe I’m on the same track.

I don’t write smut or porn.  Both those, to me, are all about the sex.  It’s about the act.  It’s about getting off.  And that’s it.  I like to think I do the sort of stuff that Dan Fielding won’t like, because it’s got a plot.  It’s got characters.  It’s got something that you can get into besides sex and sex und zex!

Or, as Trusty Editortm told me the other night after they read one of my old fetish stories, “You were trying to create characters that people would care about.”

Guilty as charged.

That’s me.  That’s who I am and what I do, and I feel I’m really damn good at it.  And I like to think I’m in the same league as my other erotica friends who are publishing and making a living in this genre.  Maybe that won’t be my niche.  But I will do it from time to time.

And I will get it published.

So please don’t tell me I have porn links on my page–

I might have to make a phone call if you do.

Opening Doors

What a day . . . late to bed and up early, and the first thing on the docket is a chat with someone in England.  Discussion: BDSM.

Yeah, you do your Facebook post on being up and drinking coffee while you check the news, and I’ll do mine on this.

Getting back into erotica has been a nice trip.  I don’t know that what I did before could be considered “erotica”–straight up fetish stuff rarely is–but you have to know the feelings there, you have to know what’s going to touch people.  If you want to affect people, you need to dip your toe in the erotica pool from time to time.

And it’s been a very long time since I’ve been swimming.

Like this short story I’m doing.  Last night I started in on the second scene, where my couple head back to a condo.  I was at it for probably 90 minutes, and during that time I would write a bit, then think, then listen to some music and maybe play a game . . . then think a little more, and then do another paragraph or two.

It wasn’t that I was being deliberately slow, it was I needed to get the feel for the scene, the feel of the characters, what they were feeling . . . I needed to wade slowly into this pool and let the temperature of the water equalize against my body.  Sure, I could jump right in and come up gasping and shivering, and what I’d produce in that moment would probably smell like crap.

The 400 words that eventually spilled out, however, they felt right.  Maybe they don’t feel like hard-core erotica, but they feel right to me.

And the more you I delve into this world, the more it really begins to reawaken old feelings I once had.  Why I lost them–hey, you can probably write a book on it.  Most of us have been there: being alone, partners who aren’t into “things”, you name it, it’s been there.  I’ve been there a lot over the last 20 or so years, and trying to get back into the “swing” of things isn’t easy.  In a lot of ways it still feels like a spectator sport.

Or in my case: I have been a huge motor sport fan most of my life.  But in the last 10 or so years, I wanted to do more than just watch.  I wanted to get in an drive.  I want to feel the acceleration and the turns and the breaking–

Most of all, I wanna go fast.

I got doors opening.  Am I gonna walk through before they shut, maybe forever this time?

All I can say is one just never knows what the future is gonna bring–