I have always been creative, artsy, one might say. From fashion to dance to writing, my mind seems to see the world in images and art. It’s an odd thing, or at least I used to think so. What can you do for a career with that though? Being "artsy" isn't practical. I’d often hear. So when a certificate course of study was offered for high school students to finish with college credit in Interior Design, I jumped at the chance. Of course, nothing is as easy as picking out pictures and furniture or paint colors and style, and so it’s one of those things that never fully took hold. When I dated an older man from a bit of a wealthy background, I found myself dabbling for people, first for free, and then for small fees. I think he just wanted me to have a “career,” but I was only just in college then, finding myself, discovering who I was, making sense of my urges, and growing into the person and career I wanted. What I discovered is there wasn’t much that was creative about it. In fact, it stifled creativity. It wasn’t MY creativity. It was THEIR creativity. I’m sure that brings people much joy, to exact a plan to specifications, perfectly to someone’s expectations, to watch their joy about the completion and fruition of a vision. It can be. Do not get me wrong. But more often than not, it was just frustrating. My taste and style may not be someone else’s, and frankly, it didn’t matter. If someone wanted things I found repulsive, I followed through. After all, that was the job. And more and more, people would say they wanted a particular style or time period, but really what they wanted was a page out of Pottery Barn over and over. This wasn't about me feeling satisfied with art or beauty or creation; it was about basically doing what I was told. And I don't like doing what I'm told (unless maybe in the bedroom. :) But I digress!) This concept is no different when it comes to writing, especially poetry. A creative person needs to create. Not for pay. Not for someone else. But only for herself. There are people who write for others. Some prompts make me feel that way. Write about THIS. But I don’t want to write about THAT if it doesn’t inspire me or touch me or reach me. It’s artificial to me. Instead, I want to write about the sky or the weather or love or my dreams or my thoughts or my fears or my fantasies or my relationships or my experiences or my self-discovery or my stream-of-conscious rants; in short, I want to write about whatever I want to write about or feeling at that moment. It’s a burning urge that is almost impossible to extinguish. I have stopped trying. I create because I can’t do anything else. It comes out of me. It spills forth, whether I share it with someone or not. I write so much, so much of it I’m afraid to share, the darker moments of my psyche for instance, but I have yet to fall prey to writing for what I think an audience wants. Perhaps that is a mistake. Perhaps that is precisely what I’m doing wrong. But for now, I see the interior design of my mind, and I try to convey it with words. Sometimes I succeed; sometimes I don’t. But I never have to paint it orange when I want to paint it black. And perhaps that's not practical. But perhaps practical is overrated.
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Today I am admitting something: I am not perfect. Not. Even. Close. Ha! Not so much a revelation, huh? Feel cheated? Tricked? Well, I have another confession. And I hope we’re still friends after it. I’m about to do something I thought I’d never do, that I thought was silly and trivial and narcissistic. And here I am. About to do it. “What?” you may be asking? You sitting down? I’m about to bite the bullet and go to a salon with one of my besties to get…No. Not fake boobs. Not Botox. Or something similarly appalling. But something else unspeakable...fake eyelashes! Why? Good question. And I’ll try to answer without seeming like…a boob myself! As a Christmas gift, I got a gift card to my favorite salon, filled with all kinds of goodies from facials to massages and to now, it seems, fake eyelashes! I’ve secretly always wanted to try them. But thought: I am not that superficial. Who does something like this? And here I am, about to take the plunge. Tress up my eyes. Ditch mascara, maybe for an eternity! We all have our insecurities. Right? Who among us REALLY likes the way we look. There are certain things I will just never like about myself—the length of my legs, the way I overthink things, the way my two front teeth seem to come out maybe a little too far, how much smarter my brother is than me…and… I could go on, but you get the idea. But my eyes have never been one of them. I don’t mind them. I like the way they change color. I like that I have 20/20 vision (even though I occasionally wear fake glasses. Dear god. I’m a mess!). So why the eyelashes? Well, why the hell not? That’s the best answer I can give! I've got nothing profound here. I work hard for a living. I earn my own money. And as I age, I find it harder and harder to find anything that doesn’t irritate my skin, mascara or eye liner often one of them. So why the hell not? It might be fun. I might have more confidence. Maybe I’ll become less shy. Maybe I’ll feel, for just a moment, that I am glamorous, that maybe, I’ll blink my eyes and feel the weight of luxurious eye lashes against my skin, and for once, become comfortable in my own skin. Highly unlikely. But at the very least, it will remind me never to judge why people might do what they do, cosmetically or otherwise. It’s not my business or for me to decide. Sometimes, we just feel the need to try something new, have an adventure, crawl out of our comfort zones to find the comfort and acceptance we all crave. And this 2019, I’m no longer going to worry about what other people think of me or my choices, or question why I have the urges I do, but instead, sit back, and say: Damn it. That was fun. And then maybe wink with the best damn eyelashes a girl could ask for! ;) Yesterday in The Nu Romantics, I asked a question about the color red. It went something like: Look wherever you are and find the closest thing to you that is red. What is it? And what does it say about you? and I discussed my red bag and its "baggage," both literal and figurative. It was fascinating to read everyone's responses, and those of us who embrace red; and those of us who do not. It says a lot more about us than we think. (Join our Facebook page to read everyone's responses). And at first, I thought it might be a fun activity, just to see what kinds of things people have around them, the small, the big, the deep and the superficial. And really, it sort of turned into a philosophical idea for me. In an earlier post this year, I wrote about the color pink (See Post Here), in the sense of breaking the stereotype about pink, that pink is not necessarily a “girlie” color, and that even if it were, what’s wrong with being a girl or feminine and embracing all those traits that come with it, like empathy and sensitivity for instance? And then, after I conducted the exercise in The Nu Romantics, I began to ponder the very fact that I own a lot of red accessories. Yes. I love fashion. If you’ve been following my new page and Fashion Fridays, you know that already. And I own a ton of scarves and shoes and funky jewelry so that any outfit can suddenly become spectacular, even when it isn’t. But I’m realizing something else about this. It’s really not that at all. Like pink, red comes with its own symbolic value. While pink equates to love and feminine traits by all accounts, red equates with a vibrant energy, one that is tied to sexuality and even lust. Read more on color and symbolism. I am a very sexual person –what was it I wrote in a poem the other day? I have a "broadhead’s sexuality"? (My poetry page)…and perhaps that is partly why I like the color red on my body in the form of clothing, but not so loud that it overtakes me. It’s just a "pop of color," right? Perhaps, too, that is why I love to wear lipstick in all shades of red, even naming my first poetry collection Ruin My Lipstick for goodness sake! I used to think it was because “it looked good with my complexion.” But really, doesn’t it simply match what swollen lips look like after a night of passionate kissing, our cheeks the same rosy hue during and after the heat of love-making? So okay. Red is a sexual color. And I am a sexual, passionate person. But why then only a pop? Why not go all out? We know why. I have repression issues. 😊 Don’t worry. I’m working on it. Perhaps I use it like a sign to let people know. Hey! I may seem sweet and innocent…but…you see this 'pop'?... All kidding aside. I have psychoanalyzed it further. (Why? Because that’s how my mind works!) And so, it’s much more than sexual energy sneaking its way into my world. It’s a life-long stifling from parents and society. If pink is my favorite color, is it because I think it should be? I’m a girl. Girls should act a certain way, right? WRONG! But growing up, that was the case. Couple that with a mother who told me: “You’re not a boy. Stop being loud,” I became a rather shy gal, easily embarrassed, that embarrassment I’ve written about before, where I can feel it right on the outside of my ears. And so maybe red, to me, doesn’t only mean sexuality alone, but instead, maybe it’s my way to rebel, to let go a little, to scream without screaming, you know? And if red is rebellion, then guess what? It’s starting to work, because I have never felt more alive and "seen" than I have these last several months. And so, as I get ready to re-release my Natalie’s Edge series, Edge of Torment (Title voted by you--thank you again!), why should I choose any other color than red for my cover? It’s bold. It’s powerful, and damn it, I don’t want to be quiet about it. I have ditched my first concept, because, for a change, I want to be completely and utterly red, proud, and out loud, for all to see. Do any of you women have short hair? And heterosexual men—do you prefer short or long hair on “yo’ woman?” Yup. That is the basic thrust 😉 of today’s #ThursdayThoughts. Hair! But bear with me. It’s going to take me a little while to get there. But you know me by now! Last week, I tackled something pretty serious and slightly profound, so this week I thought I’d take it down a notch. You may be asking what the holy hell I’m talking about hair for? In a world gone Big-Brother mad right now, I stopped and did something completely mindless and without deep thought. I watched "The Bachelor." Yes. That cheesy, contrived TV-show that pits women against each other in a game of wooing and competition to see who can win the man. What ensues is a journey to find “love” but of course we all know, it’s a journey to win, to connive, to become what it takes to succeed, the weaker players easily weeded out early on. It’s all rather foolish and sick and shallow and yet, is it? How is it really any different than any other game or contest? Are we against all contests? Why is this one deemed so ‘wrong’? Does it require stamina? Yup. Skill? You bet it does. Taking risks and overcoming fears and phobias? Hell, yes. I wouldn’t do half those things they are required to do! Intelligence? Yes. On many levels it absolutely DOES require a deep amount of emotional and social intelligence, and even intellect. The smart ones do rise to the top. People look at it and think it’s about looks only. But don’t looks just come down to personal preference? Attraction is so much more than that, and we all know it and often can’t even explain why we’re so attracted to someone (See: the-pheromone-myth-and-online-relationships.html). But I’m not here to defend "The Bachelor." It’s a twisted peek into the human psyche on both sides of this equation, participant and spectator, and some nights I felt a thin sheen of slime on my skin that no shower could remove. But even as I scoffed at its superficiality and complete manipulation by the producers, donning the most butter atop popcorn known to mankind, slapping on a pair of comfortable yoga pants, and inviting my girlfriends under my favorite throw, squished on the couch together, our ridiculous buns bobbing in laughter to the moments of sheer lunacy on the screen, I began to realize the show succeeds not because it may cater to the lowest common denominator in our society, but because it is a contest, a competition, like any other competition out there that people flock to see its champions and losers. Is it really so different than the Olympics? Football? The Greatest Chef? And the like? Make no mistake, it isn’t about love. Not one bit. Not usually. And anyone who wins “the prize” who watches back the utter gluttony and lies told by “the catch” (yes. I suppose a fishing competition is more akin to this than the basest of sports), is inevitably bound to taste the flavor of their own vomit. But what I’m really here to talk about is Bekah M, the Bekah who didn’t win, the Bekah…wait for it…who had short hair. GASP! Funnily enough, some of the major news outlets were “reporting” on this. And some proclaimed: “Are you serious? This is news? Short hair is news? In a time where there is gun violence and immigration debate and the most polarizing president in history at our helm, we’re talking about hair for god’s sake?” Everywhere on social media people were yammering: This is the first time in “Bachelor history” (for those of you who have ever watched the show, you’ll get the joke) that a woman with short hair has made it this far! It is a bit ludicrous, and I chuckle even as I write this, but it really DOES say something, doesn’t it? Hair seems to say something and always has. According to archaelogist, Elizabeth Bartman in Time magazine online: “Even despite the Ancient Greek ideal of a 'bearded, long-haired philosopher,' women in that society still had longer hair than men regularly did. Roman women kept their hair long and tended to part it down the center, and a man devoting too much attention to his hair 'risked scorn for appearing effeminate.' Further, the bible may have started its popularity in our western, Christian culture that quotes St. Paul: “Doth not nature itself teach you that if a man have long hair it is a shame unto him? But if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her.” And more, many scholars believe it stemmed from the belief that hair and length was a direct correlation to someone’s health. “In order to have long hair you have to be healthy...You have to eat well, have no diseases, no infectious organisms, you have to have good rest and exercise.” Who doesn't want a woman like that? In an article from the University of Brighton, UK, on women of Victorian times, and we see it the literature I seem to love, “A woman’s long hair, after all, is the emblem of her femininity. More than that, it is a symbol of her sexuality, and the longer, thicker and more wanton the tresses, the more passionate the heart beneath them is assumed to be.” We are reminded of Lilith and Ruth, Ruth even transforming herself by having to have her luscious locks “castrated,” hair being such a powerful symbol of sexuality and wanton sexuality. Even today, as noted in an article in Psychology Today: “There’s an idea floating around that long hair on women is appealing to men—that mass of flowiness and texture supposedly trumpets femininity, adding to women’s appeal as the gentler sex.” But the article goes on to say that many men today are actually drawn to women with shorter hair, saying, “It seems more like a choice, like the woman is more self-determined.” And that this is appealing to the modern-day man. Is that true? I’ve never worn my hair short. As a lover of dance, I wasn’t really allowed that option, my early years in a very strict studio. I also don’t have Becah K’s face to don such an adorable look. It may be because my brother liked to tease me upon first exiting the shower, towel wrapped around my head. “What’s up Moon Face?” Regardless, it seems all this talk about “hair” and “that” Bachelor contestant is much deeper than it appeared. It’s really a study in all three of the great “ologies”—anthropology, sociology, and psychology, if one really begins to think on it, delve, question it. Just why short hair seemed to make ‘news’ makes a bit more sense now under this lens. And revisiting some of the Victorian literature while researching this topic a little bit, I realized that hair is always mentioned somehow. I used to think it imagery for writing sake, which it is of course, but really, it’s much more than that; it's a reflection of culture and even history of the female entity. It is has also made me think about my own writing and heroines. Personally, my hair is the one thing physically I have never complained about. I like my hair. There. I said it. I admit it. I was graced with good hair. And we females are critical enough about ourselves daily not to say so if we actually like something about ourselves. Why is that uncomfortable to do? Perhaps something to tackle in another post. But every single one of my heroines has luxurious, long hair. Some of my minor characters do not--Patricia, my favorite from Natalie’s Edge, sporting a bob, Olivia, the villain in Thorne, also sporting one, and Jennifer, Thorne’s lesbian, best friend dons short hair, and maybe my coolest character ever--but the heroines? No. Not yet.
So to Bekah M. Thank you. My next heroine just may have short hair! There is no question my next heroine will twirl off the pages with grace and sass, very much the way Bekah M did. I’m not sure what my hero (or usually anti-hero) will pull in the bedroom, but damn it, I just may dedicate my next novel to our short-haired vixen. And isn’t it funny? Even as I write this, it still feels slightly uncomfortable in my mind’s eye. We still have a long way to go, like almost everything else still fighting its way out of stereotypes, discrimination, and tradition. And so perhaps that is why a silly, mindless, let-me-shut-off-for-a-few-hours-and-not-think TV show made news about the girl with short hair…There’s much more there than what does, or doesn’t, reach the below the surface of a woman's neck. :) Tattoos were once thought of as marks of the troubled, the degenerate, the troubIe makers. Employers shunned those with tattoos and lies and myths about them were widespread and full of misconceptions, exaggerations, and lies even. Times have changed, like most things based on fiction and lack of knowledge or understanding. And tattoos are more common and accepted than ever, even consider works of art. I have one small tattoo that I got in college on a whim, and though not profound or "serious" in its outward appearance, I do love it. I got it at a time when I was truly discovering myself and my sexuality, where I could finally accept that calling myself a feminist and having submissive sexual tendencies didn't have to be opposing forces. Thank you, college, for that! I'm pondering getting one more, either on my shoulder or lower hip, right on the bone, or on the underside of a breast. Something also small. I'm not a fan of ostentatious tattoos. My body just isn't big enough for that, and it's just not something I find attractive, personally. Plus, I like skin. ;) I want it to be a quote, and I would have gotten one already, except that I'm not sure which one! Of course, Shakespeare comes to mind, and I've narrowed it down But lately, I've been pondering my own quote, one I penned myself. Is that too self-indulgent? I was thinking about "Ruin My Lipstick" to mark and forever remind me that I published my first poetry book, something I never thought I'd have the courage to do, but I'm not sure at 80, I'd be happy with that choice! And then again, why not? It's another turning point in my life, another mark of accomplishment, a growth, a reckoning. “Ruin My Lipstick” is the title poem of the collection, but it has layered meaning for me in many ways. Literally, there is this: “I liked to wear lipstick and nothing else and found myself fascinated with the shape of my lips and the different colors I could make them.” But it’s also very symbolic and figurative. We all have insecurities, and as I was compiling my poems to include, I realized the theme of facade runs through much of my work. In fact, most of my writing does, even my novels, those fronts we all put up in real life: who we are expected to be, which is sometimes in direct competition with WHO we really are. “Ruin My Lipstick,” therefore, is that idea. I look “put together.” Or I look proper. Or I look the part of whatever role I must play in the moment I am in it, but just under the surface, there is always this brimming sexuality or sensuality that is as much a part of me as breathing. And so secretly, I guess the idea of “ruin my lipstick,” puts those two ideas together as one, and allows me to be flawed, to accept those flaws, and to be loved because of them. In “Nude of Her Tights,” I talk about that symbolically and literally. Here’s a bit of it: Insecure. She lifts a leg, one at a time, rolls the nylon up over painted pointed toes, across straight knees, up higher over the spot charged with electricity because of him, and at last rests them around her waist with an elastic snap. She stands, exposed, but for the nude of her tights, and runs her fingers down her body one last time. The legs that were never long enough are suddenly just right. So frankly, perhaps I want this tattoo to be less frivolous, less rebellious really mean something to me, more of a reflection of the person I am now today, not the college student in the beginning of self discovery and rebellion, but the older version of myself that I am happy I am becoming, albeit, slowly.
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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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