What she looks like

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When I wrote Wanton, the character was vividly imagined, created by my subconscious, in a dream.

I describe her in the text:

 

Blood-red hair cut just past her jaw line, brushing her long, slender neck. Big eyes some strange color I could never put a name to. Full lips in a perpetual sneer. Her teeth were a little bit crooked (most of these things I noticed only later). Early 20s, probably ten years my junior, but with something in the eyes that seemed much older. 

Later I add that she’s tall (half a head shorter than our narrator, who described himself as a big man so he’s something north of six foot.  Hey arms are sleeved with tattoos, as well tattooed flowering vines covering hips and sides. 

Several years after I wrote it, I bought a book called Naughty and Nice: The Good Girl Art of Bruce Timm (an incredible book by the way, by one of my favorite comic artists of all time; out of print now, but I’ve heard a re-release is coming — EDIT: here is the re-print

 

In any case, when I first opened said book, there was Wanton looking at me, straight out of my mind’s eye. 

the tattoos are not there, of course, and hair color; but imagine before she was heavily covered. Wanton’s blond, naturally, hair a honey color. But we know she dyes it, red in the story. So imagine this is a black hair phase, pre-tattoos. The pubic hair would be blond, of course, but again, easily imagined. 

I’ve actually tried to get my Timm to draw my version of this girl (it’s been impossible to reach him thus far). At some point I hope to find someone who can transform this for me, digitally, or even re-draw it in something like Timm’s style. 

Alas I no longer have the book, for some reason, so can’t get a higher resolution image. Until the book is reprinted, this will have to do. As best I can present it, this is her. 

 

 

 

Bruce Timm Naught and Nice page 87

Trying to Start

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I’m trying to start writing something. 

I’ve edited a lot over the last month, even re-wrote bits of things. 

It’s been cathartic to feel it coming back, to hear narration in my head again, to refresh memory of how to create. 

I’ve even got a friend asking me to write her something. 

How did I used to start a piece of fiction? I frankly can’t recall. I can’t recall how to get from blank page to — that thing that happens after a blank page. That thing where words go, with purpose and meaning and intent. 

I was good at this, a while ago, until I stopped being able to do it at all. 

I’m doing this instead of that, an avoidant technique. 

Stop stalling I say to myself. Type. 

In a minute. 

Meanwhile, I was successful in getting a number of friends interested in my novella,  Wanton. One or two via Facebook, but maybe 20 via a post on Instagram. 

The two on Facebook actually read, loved, responded. But the mass of people from Instagram, not one went beyond thanks after asking for the link. 

It’s the age old creator’s problem, isn’t it. Create something for yourself, first, because audiences don’t really want to venture forth to new things, even if they ask. 

Ah well. Three or four new readers is something, particularly after a decade of not having anything posted. It’s a start. 

But as a reminder to myself, go listen more to friends music. Go read their books. TELL THEM you’re reading, listening. Creators need it. 

 

Howling to the Void

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It’s funny, when I started this blog, which was mumble years ago, it was utterly free. Nobody read it, nobody knew it existed apart from my friend Jen who originally hosted it.

There is a pure and complete freedom to write without any audience. I could say anything, do anything, didn’t matter.

Social media changed that – orkut, in this case. People followed a link and I gradually picked up readers, first random strangers, then later real life friends and family.

Suddenly the externalization of inner voice might be read by the people I was talking about, and I started writing to an audience, or worse, not writing because of an audience. It changed

 

Now, it’s come full circle. Nobody is reading; in all likelihood, they never will. So I could do what I originally started this for, howling into the void, free, honest, unfiltered,

I dunno if I’m ready for that. Or if the internet is ready. Maybe I’ll find out, though.

What’s it all about

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For the first time in at least a decade, i’ve updated the About page for this site (also linked on side bar and in menus, here here here, oh, everywhere, as the Genie said.

You should read it, it’s unimaginably brilliant. Really.

Also, on the off chance that anyone is reading out there, I really appreciate comments. You don’t have to use a real email and i’m definitely not saving anyone’s emails; that shit’s just there to ward off spam comments (which, despite nobody reading, I still get a cubic fuckton of daily).

Everything that’s old is slightly less old

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I pulled out all the old stories that were once up in a writing blog off of an old archive disk, and am gradually going through them.

It’s a mixed bag. There’s nothing anywhere as good (he says, full of humility) Wanton, of which i’me very proud, particularly after a revision.

But there’s some treasure.

Long Dark Car (a story based on a long ago sex dream about – well, some minor TV star) is actually pretty good, and required no editing to speak of (aside from cleaning up typos).

The Man with the Bag is better than I remembered it being; it’s actually a lot of fun. It was written for a long-ago contest for long-gone erotica site Satin Slippers; we were asked to write ‘Bad Santa’ erotic stories. Mine won. Note that it’s password protected right now, because it needs a disclaimer (the site it was written for hosted a lot of non-consent type stories, so it was written with that in mind – yes, he’s a very bad santa). It needed a little revision, but not much. If you want to read it, you’ve been warned – the password is mister Claus’ first name, all lower case.

Aside from that, I have a half dozen short pieces (some erotic, some not) which I have to go through to see if they should be fixed and posted, or if they should just stay in the archive permanently. We’ll see.

An admission of guilt, or at least, of writing

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Well, today I more or less announced myself as a writer in Facebook.

which won’t be big news for the people who used to  read this space, or for the very few who have read my fiction, but in the modern, post blogosphereera world of social networks, I don’t think many of the people I interact with know me as such, despite this site having been linked from FB and Instagram for years.

but after completing a marathon revision session on my novella Wanton, I both needed acknowledge my own progress, fighting back from years of feeling unable, as well as, I’ll admit it, hoping somebody would go read it. I don’t work in a vacuum well; I’ve always needed an audience to write for, or at least hoped my work would find one. So while I did t link direst to this site or to the novella in question (yet), I am hoping I get a hit or two and somebody says, I’d like to read that.

One thing that’s changed since I wrote this is the need to trigger warning it; I never before felt I needed to label my work, despite it being largely erotic, because I consider Wanton, at least, to be fiction, a love story, rather than a wank-piece. It may get you aroused, and I hope it does, but the intent is to tell a story about two characters in an obsessive, destructive relationship. It’s about the people, not about what they may do.

but, the story is filled with blood, pain, come, drugs and both physical and emotional harm. The last  two people I shared it with pre-edit, I didn’t warn, and I think it gut-punched them in different ways.

going forward, then, it has warnings.

 

Protect ya neck

Karl Elvis2 Comments

Or more accurately, your shoulders.

I’ve spent the last 10 weeks recovering from a rotator cuff surgery, so unable to drive stick shift, ride my motorcycle, work out, or do fuck all that needs my use of my right (dominant) shoulder. (Ok, all of me is dominant, some of you know that, but, well, that’s means something else.)

 

Let me give you all a piece of advice: no matter how fit and strong and young you are, your shoulders are vulnerable to injury, and shoulder injuries fucking hurt. Shoulder surgery hurts like hell, for a long time, and is incredibly slow to heal

That gets worse as you get older.

My orthopedic surgeon tells me it’s one of the most painful, slowest healing surgeries around, and from person experience, I can agree with this.

If you’re working out, trust anyone who tells you you’re risking injury with a technique. There are right and wrong ways, and you can only get away with wrong for just so long before something give out,

 

All that said, it’s healing, but it’s going to take months more before I can do a push-up, pull-up, bench press, or just ride my harley.

So trust me on this one, take care of yer goddam shoulders.

Old words, new friends.

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I suppose every writer understands the awkward, uncomfortable experience of trying to re-read or edit something they wrote a very long time ago. 

For me, at least, that experience tends to begin with cringing, and then moves on to a desire to we-write from scratch, just to avoid any more uncomfortable re-reading. 

At that point I usually just close the editing tool I have open and walk away. 

I used to write all them time. I was once a reasonably accomplished tech writer. In  early 2004 I started blogging, writing almost daily. Writing short essays several times per week is great practice for a writer. 

I’ve written a number of short stories, started a novel at least three times, actually finished a novella. 

It all stopped a few years ago. Social media rose and blogs stopped being a thing, and then the friend who hosted my web sites died suddenly, leaning me locked out our server for good (I was able to export most of the writing, fortunately, and have since at least gotten the blog back up, if not kept it up to date).  

In any case, I just stopped writing, for a very long time. 

Recently, however, a friend of mine asked to read something of mine, so I fished a piece of fiction out of archives and shared it, getting positive feedback; this got me stated writing a few things, just descriptions of events or experiences. Nothing ambitious, but vastly more than I’ve written in a decade. 

Then a second friend made a similar request to read something. That friend then recorded herself recording a piece of  my writing, is planning to do a more complete recorded reading in future.

Hearing it out loud, hearing the story, and hearing all the little things I needed to fix somehow gave me the kick in the ass I needed to actually complete a long-avoided re-edit. A task I’ve been avoiding for literally a decade, if not more. 

It’s been cathartic, and I am thankful for the friend who got me started on this, as well as the one who liked my work enough to try reading it out loud.