Do you think money-making is the new morality? Or am I naïve to think that this is something new, that in fact, it has always been this way? Are humans, by our very nature, good or bad intrinsically? Do we need to fight our urges constantly? I have no idea the answers to these questions. I like to think I’m good, not perfect, far from, but ‘good.’ That my conscience tells me right from wrong. But I ask again: Is that simply naïve? Is there no such thing but only what we’ve learned from birth onward? Our environment and upbringing shaping us? Or is it a combo of genes and environment? I’m an indie author by choice, but lately, I’ve been rethinking this. Lately, I’m disgusted. And lately, I think I’ve had enough. Let me tell you something. If you think supporting cheaters and liars and piss-poor writers is a good thing, I neither need or want your friendship. But perhaps you don’t know what you’re doing, so I give you the benefit of the doubt and, at this point, feel it a duty to tell you. If you haven’t heard, there are several authors (okay MORE than several) who have been cheating the Amazon system. I’ve been hearing about this for weeks. I try to keep my nose clean. Stay out of things that don’t affect me, e.g. MIND MY OWN BUSINESS, do what makes my heart sing and my soul soar! Fuck what everyone else is doing. I’ve got books to write. Poems to bleed. Friends to support. But I can no longer remain silent. Part of being that “good” person I spoke of above is doing the right thing. And the right thing is saying something about this. I will not be a passive supporter of this crap anymore. I kept silent because I knew not of the truth or fabrication of accusations. I’m not a torch blazing witch hunter. I need facts. I do research. I’m not a bandwagoner. If you know me at all, you know this already. But now I know. Some (I’m sure not all) of this BS is 100% true. What am I speaking of? It’s complicated to those who may not understand the system. Here it is simplistically: An indie author who chooses to enroll their books into an Amazon program called Kindle Unlimited gets paid not only from book sales but from page reads. This means, a writer who has readers enrolled in this program get paid for every page a reader swipes across with eager fingers to get to that much-anticipated ending (I am a reader as well as a writer and pay for this myself to read thousands of books a year). Following so far? More simple: For every page a reader swipes past, we writers get paid. Seems pretty great, right? I used to think so. Sadly, some authors are abusing this system. They are “stuffing” the beginning of their books so that readers have to swipe furiously to get to the “new” material. We’re talking CHAPTERS upon CHAPTERS of material before they even get to what they are trying to read. But it gets even worse. Some authors even put GIVEWAWAYS or FREE things but only by SWIPING to the end to get there. And so, as you’ve deduced, the more swipes, the more the author gets paid. Again…seems pretty great for everyone, right? Wrong! And here’s why. This affects me. This affects you. For every swipe and read, Amazon calculates our “rank” and our selling “status.” The higher our rank, the more visibility you, the reader, will see of authors at a higher rank when you shop or turn on your kindle. What does this mean?
And with shitty writing comes a shitty perception of what it means to be an indie author. It equates over and over and over that indie writers are not “good” writers. And I’m here to tell you: The only thing it shows is that some people have class and morals and standards and some are just greedy manipulators who will do anything to make a buck. I equate it with my students who cheat. I can’t change it. They have lost their moral fiber and compass, maybe never having one at all. No one wins. We just get dumber. And EVERYONE—you, me, society-- pays in the long run.
Please stop supporting this as a reader. If you open a book to find this nefarious practice, don’t be a part of it. Don’t do it. Shame on you if you do it knowingly. But as a wise man once said: Ignorance is no excuse. And now, you can’t even claim that.
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Is social media killing our interpersonal skills? Our flesh and blood lives? Are we spending too much time on the virtual rather than the real? It seems more and more of my friends are making decisions to leave Social Media (SM), or at the very least, put it waaaay in the background of their lives. As a writer, and a published writer trying to sell books, it’s hardly an option for me to leave altogether. Or is that a lie I’m telling myself? If I were to leave it, would my sales suffer or remain the same? So I ask myself: What am I getting out of SM and is it worth it to stick around? By the very nature of the term--Social Media—it seems just that, a place to socialize, which is fine. New ones are popping up, like MeWe, but from all accounts, that is very “social” and perhaps just another time-suck void, a place to "pick up" someone. I'm not interested in that. And what of those of us who use a penname of sorts, completely separate life from our non-virtual world, filled with a completely different set of friends and acquaintances, another universe entirely? Where do we draw the line? If SM means to use “media” to be “social,” where do we distinguish our “real” lives from the ones in cyberspace? How “real” is this virtual world and are we living in a place that doesn’t really exist? Are we creating a fantasy existence we simply don’t have in the outside, flesh and blood world, living our lives here, as if in a dream we can create? Do the lonely need social media the most? Lost in the real world? Unfulfilled? We sure do get caught up in it. We spend an inordinate amount of time here, scrolling, liking, commenting, posting…only to look up at the time and think: Well, where the hell did THAT go? People run the gamut from falling in love to backstabbing on the daily. It’s like living in a video game I think somedays, where we feel more alive and real 'there' than 'here.' My circle of friends are primarily writers (and of course readers—I hope—or this whole thing becomes Theatre of the Absurd). Is that why we like it here so much? Because we are creating, the very fiber of what being a writer is? Are we, then, writing our own stories in essence? Maybe the story we want to have? Isn’t that what a writer does? Write stories? I don’t know the answers to these questions. I’m asking them. I’m watching it destroy people while lift and free others. Where do I fit in? Is it slowly killing me or is it helping me to live a life of creative freedom, one I may not have otherwise? Or is it like any addiction where we ask the same questions: Is it affecting my real life? Is it ruining parts of my life? Am I ignoring things that should not and cannot be ignored? But then without it, addiction or otherwise, I would ask: Is this the place I NEED to spend time to write, to create, to live out fantasies? Is that just the curse of being a creative being and that this modern-day venue, almost a romantic throwback to a time of love letters and waiting for the touch of someone while basking in it at the same time, is actually a gift to stay alive? There is something so paradoxical about it, isn’t it? It’s so modern and so evasive but is it really any different than old—school paper and pen? Our letters we write to the world? Is social media really just that for writers? Our journals? Our stories? Our poems? Us? I guess I must really answer these things, for me, personally, and through the lens of my existence as a writer. But I will end with this. Either we want to share our work as writers or we don’t. It’s really that simple. If we want to write for only ourselves, there is absolutely no reason to stay on social media. None, except to be "social." And I fear too many writers are using it for only that. But even as I write that, I almost disagree and could argue that social media has made writers of us all…for every post we write is a form of just that, writing. We are human. We want to be heard. But is our quest of wanting to be “liked” slowly destroying our humanity, our true capabilities to love one another? Is it a false love? A façade? A meaningless void of nothingness?
I’ve said it before: I write. Therefore I am. If I cease to write for others, will I, myself, cease to exist? I will exist just as sure as I'm watching the clouds scroll across the sky right the way I'm scrolling my words to you right now. But I think I'd be dead. My post today comes from a conversation I had with an old ‘friend’ from my past the other day. I wasn’t going to write about it, but it’s gnawing away at me, so I must. You know when you think you know how you feel about something or what you believe and then someone challenges that, and you may change your mind or at least THINK about things differently? Yes. That. BDSM. What is it? Where/how did we come to like certain things in the bedroom and beyond? I'm not going to use this post to explain what the acronym means or all the varied nuances of BDSM. It's too varied and that's not my point here. My advice is : If you don't know? Do some research. But it used to be a long-held misconception that something “bad” must have happened to us or “traumatic,” and this is the “why” of why we like certain things, sexually or otherwise. I don’t doubt our pasts shape our present in so many ways (and our future). But must it be traumatic? No. It might be the evolution of discovery. Our journey. Someone may have asked: Hey, wanna try x, y, or z? And you say: Um…Okay. And then you discover you may like something (or not). The BDSM community spends an awful lot of time talking about consent. And it’s confusing when there are books and movies and dark romances that thrive on non-consent or dubious consent—usually, in these tales, the person “victimized” secretly likes it though, wants it, and just needs to discover it…so is there really any non-consent at all? It’s quite confusing in a world of “no means no,” isn’t it? It turns some of us on. And even in real life. It’s not always just fantasy. And, “So what?” I often said. Who cares? It’s not my business what turns on another. But maybe I’m wrong. That friend said to me: “BDSM is nothing more than consent to abuse. Period.” What? I screamed. No. You just don’t understand it. And he paused, let me rant, and then picked right back up. He said: “You misunderstand me. I’m not judging. I’m just stating the obvious. It’s EXACTLY like an abusive relationship. But with consent. You slap someone around. Or you emotionally destroy them. Or you take away their power. And then you give them pleasure after. And then comfort. The only difference is you don’t apologize for the abuse, because it’s consensual. But it’s the same, exact cycle.” (I’m paraphrasing here). For anyone who’s ever been in an abusive relationship, physical or emotional, you know the pattern. You fight. Maybe hit. Get ignored. Or “punished.” Then the “abuser” apologizes, maybe on knees, brings flowers, begs, and then, sometimes, the make-up sex is out of this world, blinding orgasm and bliss may ensue, and a time of calm enters…until…it happens all over again. Damn it. Does my friend have a point? I don’t agree with my friend. I don’t think. But then again, he does use the word consent. Is that what matters? I’m not sure. It’s why I’m writing this. I’m working through it. Some argue BDSM can be equated to being gay. It’s not a choice. It’s our make-up, something we’re born with. Maybe that is true. Or maybe it really is formed from our pasts. Or maybe it’s a combo. When the BDSM community talks loudly about consent, it makes me wonder about some of the stories I like to read (and write) and my turn-ons. It also makes me think of the BDSM Library (if you’re familiar), where most of those stories, dear god, are anything but consensual, and yet, it’s called the BDSM Library. (Not my cup of tea.) And yes, I cannot end this post without mentioning 50 Shades, and all those who call it abuse. I don’t follow that train of thought on that. But, if my friend is right, that much of BDSM is just consensual abuse, the oxymoron, suddenly may make some sense. And damn it, here I am, full-circle ending, thinking... Today’s post comes from a movie I watched the other night: The Shape of Water. Have you seen it? This won’t be a movie review. It’s impossible to write one without giving everything away, so I discuss the thing I loved about it the most, the eroticism of it. When it comes to sexy, we all have differing ideas. Just look at last week’s post on hair! Short. Long. Dreads. Bald. And everything in between. We all have different tastes and different styles. What about our reading or movie-watching pleasures? What do you find sexy there? Or does that depend on what you’re looking for at the time, your mood? If you’re looking to get aroused, perhaps to aid yourself in rising to “that” place, the big O, a quick, one-handed read? Or is it a long, angsty drawn-out sexual tease? Or perhaps you prefer more subtle, more sensual art and writing? Less erotic and more romance? What about no sex at all? Just straight romance? Really! I want to know. As I write this, I’m smiling because it started to snow, and so I am going to seemingly go in a different direction for a moment, but I’m not, not really. I always look out the window when I write for some reason, as if Nature herself will tell me what I’m thinking or what’s on my mind. You know that idea that to center ourselves we can place our fingers on our collarbone with our right hand on the left side of our collarbone, move it down just a bit and press? That is what Nature does to me. When I look out at her majesty and stop and let myself go and not think, that is when I think. Oh the irony! And when my mind quiets, I can write. What quiets you? Where are your thoughts? It’s the quiet moments of the morning where I write best, especially in the summer, when my mind isn’t going in a million directions. And the way the snow is falling right now, big, huge flakes, so light you know they would melt on your tongue immediately, their white beauty a direct contrast to the naked trees, brown, barely alive. And I realized I find it oddly erotic. Subtly so. The beauty of it is quiet. It doesn’t make a sound and yet it makes such a loud impression. This. This is what I like. And it ties into my thoughts today. I like subtle eroticism, even though sometimes I don’t write that in my own work. Like I asked you above, it does depend on my mood too. But the things that affect me the most, are not the in-my-face and graphic erotic, but, instead, eroticism that is there nonetheless, somehow a work of art, that I somehow find beautiful or sensual or erotic. I guess one would simply call it romanticized eroticism. Hmmmm…I wonder if that term has already been coined? Perhaps I should coin it if not, because yes, I do see the world that way. Things I truly admire or marvel at bring me to that conclusion. The Shape of Water does that too. Its director brings us a tale that is so rich with such beautiful, yet subtle eroticism, we suspend our disbelief about all of it. It strips barriers of stereotypes and what it means to be human and lets us just see living and love and hate and racism and good and bad and light and dark and greed and pride and science and nature and romance and the romantic and everything in between. It is no surprise why it won best picture. It reminded me that I do wonder, often, if we don’t really exist as we think we do. That perhaps we are all just connected parts of nature, four seasons, going through the cyclical inevitability of life. When I look up at the sky and pause and see its infinite expanse and ultimately question true existence and whence and how I came to be, I have no answer. Somehow, that too, is beautiful. And I realize, I don’t mind at all. I do breathe. I do feel. I do love. And that is all I really need to know. For I exist.
Is there anything you’ve always wanted to do but haven’t tried? Too scared? Or is it that you have no talent in it? Is it too risky? People always say silly idioms like: You only live once; or take a chance; or you’ll never know if you don’t try. Someone once wrote: What if I fail? Oh, but darling, what if you fly? 😊 This morning, when I woke, I lamented that I couldn’t take an adequate picture of what I saw. I wished for much longer than the briefest of moments that I could paint my view with brush and stoke in maybe watercolors or acrylic. To write it is almost impossible for me. The snow is falling as if feathers were let go out of a pillow and the pines…Oh the pines! It’s as if an artist took her paintbrush, dipped it in the purest of white, a white that doesn't exist, and meticulously placed its color just so. I swear. It felt like I was dreaming. I’ve always wanted to be an artist. In my mind’s eye, I see things so vividly. Sadly, those that “BE” decided I would have a recessive gene, and the skill of“art” was not bestowed on me. I’ve always been drawn to art in all kinds of forms. I loved the Degas ballerinas at my studio. In fact, I'd sit and get so lost in the detail that I often entered my class late. (Ha! Being late. It's my forte!). The renaissance painters. A beautiful photograph that no painter could depict. Odd, surreal stuff, like Dali. Depictions of Satan or Hell or fallen angels. I remember bringing one to college with me, I admired it so much. My roommate looked at me like she had just been put in hell herself. I didn't care. Art fascinated me. But I, myself, couldn't draw well. Or paint well. And taking the perfect picture happened once-in-a-blue-moon while. A picture of a sunflower I took graces my bathroom, but ends there. And my watercolors still remain two: A flower and oranges. Perhaps that is why I started to write so young. I had this creative energy inside of me that needed its voice. It was loud and strong and really, I can’t remember a time it was silent. I remember the first time I shared a bit of it I wrote. It was some silly contest in 4th grade. It was a simple bit of verse about nature, something assigned and something that just seemed to flow out of me. I remember thinking I’d probably be laughed at and almost didn’t share it. But I’m glad I did. It landed in the school “newspaper” and it validated, even that young, that it was okay that I had a voice of my own. And that it was okay to share it…sometimes. That idea of sharing work with others still doesn’t feel all that comfortable and sometimes, that’s okay. Some audiences are meant to be one. You’d think I’d be a bit more skilled at it by now, but it still makes my belly a bit too uneasy. Sometimes what resonates profoundly with me, the things I'm most proud of, don't seem to be the ones most people like. I do grow each day. Learn new things. And try to wake and put something down every morning, whether it’s poetry, this mumbo jumbo I share with you some mornings, or fiction, where I let my subconscious reign and roam free with little restriction. And so, I try something I’ve always wanted to try this summer, something I’ve long said I would do but haven’t. I have signed up for an introductory art course. One of the instructors where I work convinced me after we argued vehemently about those “step by step” studios that produce “paint by numbers art which is anti-art by its very nature.” (I still don't entirely agree with her!) Part of the course is photography and it’s the first I’ve seen where I don’t need a fancy camera. That is the next class. Perhaps, just perhaps, it’s never too late to try. What, really, do I have to lose? Absolutely nothing. Oh, but what I might gain!
Today I ponder jealousy. Have you ever been jealous? Duh. Of course you have! All of us have. It’s as natural as breathing. Right? We’re human, and with that comes myriad emotions. And jealousy comes in many forms, but I’m talking more “romanticly-infused” jealousy. In fact, jealousy has almost even been romanticized, especially in literature. In our writing and/or reading, depending on which camp you’re in, we love bouts of jealousy with our characters. Don’t we? My books are filled with them! Love triangles we call them. We root for our heroine to get “her man” back from the snarling grips of some nemesis. Or we revel in the angsty ups and downs of the romance trope, the break-ups, the make-ups, “I hate you, I love you,” as Taylor Swift croons. Without tension and build up and conflict, why read the story, right? Rollercoaster of emotions if you will. Thrilling, but safe from the confines of our safe and comfy beds, under covers, lamp lit as we lick our finger to turn the page or swipe our across the tablet screen. But in real life, it’s not always so neatly resolved. Sometimes it’s nothing: We might get twinges of envy that fade quickly, shaken off with a wave of the hand that says: This is silly. Stop it. Other times, it can be downright debilitating, causing our actions to be ridiculous, irrational even, especially in matters of the heart. And then there is every nuanced hue in between. Jealousy needn’t always be a bad thing either. It helps us, maybe, to keep things in perspective, to never take what we have or want for granted, to never become complacent. It can even keep a relationship fresh and exciting. Without any at all, it might even become stale or boring. No jealousy ever, and you wonder if your lover has any emotion in him. But if unchecked, it can be a monster, yes that “green-eyed monster which doth mock/The meat it feeds on.” Love triangles and the like happen in real life, they’re not so fun, are they? Yes. There are some people who thrive on this kind of drama, who almost always seem to find themselves in the middle of things they shouldn’t be over and over. But they are not common. At least I like to hope they’re not. But some of us have been there, without trying, without even knowing sometimes. And it gets ugly. Fast. It can even turn obsessive, and that’s not good. Are you constantly “checking up” on someone? Scrolling their status or trying to see who/what/when/why/how they’ve interacted with someone? Extreme jealousy stems from extreme insecurity and that is where we must pause and self reflect. That is simply not healthy. What’s really horrible is when you are on the end of jealousy. Someone is somehow jealous of you, and you have no idea why. Perhaps it causes them to lash out in both visible ways and duplicitous ways. Remember John Knowles’ A Separate Peace? Gene was so jealous, he “jounced the limb” of his best friend, which ultimately led to his death. Yes. Jealousy can do that. Sometimes around social media, we even see it among authors. The 1-star review perhaps or the “drama” and bashing I can see. We, too, even see it between friends, like the characters from A Separate Peace, the biggest cut of all. When you become the victim of someone else’s unchecked jealousy, it can lead to devastating consequences. Blame is placed on you for things out of your control. Someone’s boyfriend flirts with you or “likes” you, and somehow it's your fault. I never understand, speaking from the female perspective, but of course, it can be any combination, how when someone’s "eye roams," it’s the “girl’s” fault, never the man’s. That somehow it doesn’t take two to tango and falls on the sole shoulder of the woman the man decided to show attention to. One plus one equals two. Basic math here folks. One plus one does not equal one.
So I leave you with this. I challenge us as human beings to stop and think about where our jealousy comes from. If you’re an overly jealous person, your actions probably reflect that. It’s not attractive. And it stems from deep insecurities, most assuredly past experiences that have colored you this way. But we must live in the present. We need to be the best possible version of ourselves we can be right now. And while we may love the color green as a dress on our bodies or a pair of Converse on our feet, it’s the not the only color in the universe. If it is, perhaps it’s time to open the 120 colors of your crayon box again. After all, life it too short to limit ourselves to one shade of color. We’re much more colorful than that. And we owe it to ourselves and others to paint our worlds with who we know we can be. Yet another judgmental and arrogant person I've dealt with. Seems these last few weeks are filled with them, and I have no idea why! What is it about sensual images and the writing of erotic stories that can really get people’s knickers in a bunch? I addressed this last week with the word "erotic" and no sooner did I get into it with another on Twitter. This pompous know-it-all actually took one of my graphics and changed it. Now that takes effort! Would you like to see? I've attached it at the end if you do. I engaged with him, rather than simply block or lash out. Hell, I figured, at least I’m getting some interaction about my writing, right? And it slowly turned into the “I have a degree in English lit…and…” Yeah? So do I, buddy. But I didn’t go there. He wrote: “Usually if has anyone (sic) of either gender on the cover half naked, or uses the word Billionaire in the blurb, (or has a sword), I flick past it.” Okay. He is entitled to his opinion. But I did my own kind of flicking too (it may or may not have been with my middle finger!). Talk about judging a book by its cover. No mention of swords or billionaires in my blurb (not capitalized either, Mr. English major FYI), but yes, Natalie is en pointe ‘half naked.’ Oh my god. The gall, huh? Sadly, he is not alone in his view as Amazon agrees, because Temptation was put into the “jail” ages ago and my publisher hasn’t fixed it, because, well, if they do, I’ll lose all my reviews supposedly. This closed-minded way of thinking is getting old. And tiresome. When he started to insult the Bard, and that he “never re-reads a book” (What????), I knew it was a useless, one-sided conversation, that I was dealing with a very bored man, an unhappy one I’m sure. He hadn’t read my work, and I realized he wasn’t going to. That somehow because I explore the sensual and erotic in my writing, I’m lesser. I espoused that it’s really sad that such judgments and repression run rampant so strongly and that I find it disturbing. The question that still lingers for me more than anything though, is why he felt the need to go out of his way to engage and further, rework a graphic of mine. Buddy—you need to have more sex. Clearly. And therein lies the crux of the problem. I'm convinced of it! Natalie’s Edge is about the journey of discovering our true selves, including our sexual ones. The world of repression is very real, and for some of us, our writing is the only safe place we are allowed to express it. Writing that series was quite cathartic for me. And no one can take away its profound importance to my journey not only as a writer but as a human being who breathes and lives one day at a time. Darkness can consume an individual, swallow up the light, an unhappiness that doesn’t make much sense when that person seems to have everything. And we must reckon that or wither. Writing and exploring some of our darker thoughts and desires can often free us. Sometimes, it’s even therapy for conquering depression. And sometimes, we don’t even know until we let our subconscious roam free on the blank pages soon filled with so much of our truth, we only then can start to live. To deny sensuality is repressed, archaic nonsense. I grew up with the Catholic idea that sex is bad, so I know a thing or two about repression. I keep thinking we’re making progress. But we really aren’t. I won’t get into my political views here. But it’s quite apparent. And I ask why…just why does expressing oneself and embracing all facets of our beings get minimized to a sound byte of “porn”? My work is not “porn.” It is about relationships and romance, exploration, and submitting to visceral desires, through the written word to elicit emotion. My work is about love and acceptance. And I pity those that choose to ignore and suppress a vibrant and important part of living… If someone wants to roam about half a man, to him I simply say: I actually feel bad for you. I know. I've been there.
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I LOVE to write and read. I particularly enjoy reading erotic romance that has tons of emotion in it. I hope you will ask me questions and share your favorite authors and novels. I welcome all feedback.
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