I see it time and time again, but it’s with my peers too. And some, especially lately on social media, seem to expend an awful lot of energy on comparing themselves to others, and then acting atrociously as a result. But I don’t think they realize that it stems from comparison, because it takes form in reverse. It’s a passive aggressive sort of thing. I see it in some poetry. I see it in some commenting. What exactly am I talking about? I’m talking about people who don’t even realize they are comparing themselves to others, because they mask it as a sort of diatribe of superiority against contemporary writers and poets. They “bash” others in their quest to feel better about themselves, which begs the question: Why? Why expend so much energy on creating a negative environment that says: I’m better than you. I’m a better wordsmith. You don’t do this like I do therefore, you’re mediocre, and so on. Isn’t that a form of comparison? I don’t think it has a damn thing to do with them truly thinking they are superior. No. I think it’s actually the opposite. It’s a comparison, maybe even subconscious, that is actually making them feel inadequate, it’s their only refuge. Whether it be to ask: Why is THAT book or THAT poetry doing better than mine? Why is that post or that poem getting so many likes? It is a COMPARISON. It is a comparison of what YOU are doing against what OTHERS are doing or what is happening for them and not you. And bashing others or their work is really just a loud coping mechanism. Guess what? I’m on to you. Maybe you disagree with me, and I’d love to hear it! But my motto in my life right now is: DO YOU. I’ll do me. And if we meet in the middle to shake hands, wonderful. If we don’t? Go pound sand and keep digging your own grave. Working WITH people not AGAINST people is the only way to grow. Lifting people while staying grounded is what a community of writers or learners is. Without roots, nothing lasts. Without roots, everything gets easily plucked away in the wind and dies. So I say: Stop insulting other people. because you aren’t where you think you should be. Compare yourself to where you were yesterday and drink in the sun and water to grow. And if there isn’t any sun or water where you are, find another place. Then water those around you too. And watch just what happens to a rose and the whole rose bush when you do. Look back, yes, but only to compare yourself to the you YOU were before it bloomed and now. And smile with joy.
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As a writer, I’m not perfect, of course, when it comes to grammar, but I certainly do try to put my best foot forward in anything I share with the public. Whether it’s a simple post on Facebook or a short comment to a friend on social media, nothing is too small to care about for me. Does that mean I don’t have typos I’ve missed? Or that my phone doesn’t like to go rogue on me and change words or make up words with my intended words? (The cheeky thing!). I think you know the answer to that!
No one is perfect, and I certainly don’t expect people to be, but (yup I just negated everything that came before this, which I’ve written about before) I think some people don’t know basic grammar rules. And this worries me. Why? Because these are writers. When a writer asks me to share their books in my newsletter or a post on social media for them, and it’s riddled with typos, I find myself questioning what is going on with expectations of writing today. (My goodness, I just sounded like an old lady! Ha!) As a teacher by day, I expect these problems. It’s partially my job to help rectify those things. But when writers are putting out typo-infested work, in their blurbs for instance, does it make me question what I might find inside their books? Hell, yes it does! Should it? Am I being too picky? Ridiculously pompous even? I don’t know. But I don’t think so. Like any “job,” and make no mistake, when you share your writing with the public, it is, indeed, that, I think it’s our obligation to do it well. No one gets accolades for doing a shitty job. My concern is not for the esoteric rules or rules that are archaic and no longer make sense (we don’t read or write or speak in Latin, folks!), but things just seem to have been forgotten or are being ignored completely. Are these things important? Is grammar just in a state of flux and ever-changing? Are some things just silly rules that should be ignored? Is grammar becoming a thing of elitism? Take a very simple rule about titles. What is capitalized? And what isn’t? In the Heat of the Night. Notice what is capitalized and what is not. Why is this rule important? So what if I capitalized everything in that title? In The Heat Of The Night, for instance. But it’s WRONG, I scream inside my head! Fix that! How can a writer putting out work not KNOW that? And then I give pause. Who really cares about such minutia? Who even came up with these rules?? Will the story be any less enticing if a word is or isn’t capitalized? Are grammar rules simply becoming a thing of the past? Or are these basic rules being tossed aside a reflection of bigger problems in society? Is grammar simply a microcosm of what is happening in the world? In the United States more specifically? And what is that? A loss of manners? A loss of attention to detail? A sense of entitlement or laziness? A society that doesn’t want to work at things but wants to cheat and cut corners? A society that encourages mediocrity? A society too concerned about appeasing people rather than being honest? Or is grammar simply snobbery, a measuring stick that tries to say: I’m better than you, because I understand when to use whom and when to use who? I’m not sure the answers as I write this. I always try to remember what my 5th grade teacher once said: Grammar is important, because the intended message will be lost. If the grammar is good enough as to not "ineffectuate" the meaning, you’re good. So then, if I capitalize an article or a conjunction in a title that shouldn’t be, does it at all hurt the meaning? Maybe my concern about such a thing says more about me than anything else. Chill out, Rose. And live and let live. You know, there was once a time that starting a sentence with a conjunction was frowned upon. Pfttt. We all know that is rubbish now! So who gets elected to be the grammar police? And, further, shouldn’t I have just capitalized that? 😊 We all have flaws, perceived or otherwise, that have plagued us since youth. Or at least we just simply always remember worrying about them. I’m not smart enough. Or my legs aren’t long enough or I’m too introverted. Whatever it may be, it is something that probably weighs us down. Where did it come from? Did you wake up one morning and simply think it or feel it? Or most likely, did it stem from something someone said once. Maybe we remember EXACTLY when it started, the exact moment someone said something that stuck with us. Or maybe we’ve blocked it out, and just somehow think it’s some universal, unconnected truth that just is, as if it’s a fact. I’ve written about my legs before. I can remember an exact moment in a car when I was about 13. I was squished in with a few friends coming back from the movies, my brother driving us. It was summer and hot and we all had shorts on and windows down. I looked to the left to one of my best friends, her leg pressed against mine, and I had two thoughts, thoughts that always seem to pop into my mind, like it was yesterday. One was that her leg was so much skinnier than mine. I couldn’t stop looking at it. The second was how tan hers was next to mine. I felt pasty and unattractive and what probably really makes this memory stick is that my brother commented on it. That my legs were too big for us to pile in the back and all fit. He never said fat. They weren’t. They were just—bigger. Muscular. And too short. Always too short.
And it makes me wonder: Does everyone feel that? Do even the most happy, the one most smiling, the one who seems to have it all, feel those things too? I never thought about it much until I was older, until I actually spoke to my brother about such things, him aghast that such a small comment that, to him, meant nothing but a silly joke, could leave such a lasting impression on my psyche. Because to him, it was such a non-issue; to him, in some strange way, he was complimenting me on my hard work.
I think the things that stick with us the longest or the most come from people we love or trust who let us down. I often wonder, had a stranger said that if I would have given it two thoughts. Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s the people closest to us that can hurt us the most. In love. In friendship. Anyone we let in. And maybe that’s why it’s easier to keep people at a distance. The rocks of words can’t hit as hard far away. But up close, they can leave scars. Are you a believer in the reading of tarot cards? The power of mediums? What has led you to believe or not believe?
In truth, I find it fun, though I’ve never visited a medium, nor do I have the desire. But the couple times I did visit a tarot card reader, it was freakishly dead on. I know. I know. And I say it too. Of course we are going to make sense of what the reader says, as it’s so general, we can find ourselves in it. Who doesn’t have some problems they want to fix? Or goals they wish they had reached? Or dreams? Or love lost and lost won? But this weekend, when, on a whim, I decided to play along again, I found her words hauntingly true. So many before me had talked about her readings and how she didn’t hold back, that what she said was too specific not to be real…so I went in with an open mind, while others were too fearful. Why the heck not? I don’t fear these things. Maybe I should. I guess, deep down, I don’t believe it for a second…and yet, maybe that’s just it. I WANT to believe. I want to believe that there is a way to see things that my limited mind won’t allow me to see. Maybe that’s all it is…that we desire to believe in things we really don’t. Or maybe, it’s that we DO believe and pretend we don’t, too scared to admit there are just so many things in life that have no explanations, that we can never fully grasp. I’m certain there are a whole host of parts of the brain we don’t use. In fact, we know this to be true. Science has told us this. So, as she was about to pack up, she allowed for a one-card reading and when she flipped it, she said (and I paraphrase), only knowing my first name and nothing more, “Wow. You work tirelessly, don’t you? Every day. You work and work toward your goals. And you wonder why some days, you want to give up. Don’t give up on your dreams. Keep doing what you’re doing. It will pay off. It doesn't seem so right now, but it will.” And I jokingly said: “Is it the bags under my eyes that have given it away?” And then she flipped another card. “I see people in your life that don’t support you in these dreams. This is a patience card. You need to have it. And so do these other people in your life who demand too much of your attention.” Of course I related to this. Like 100%. But who reading that doesn’t it? I think it’s true for me; and yet, I can see how it could apply to anyone. She left me with her card and a stone. And I look at it now, pondering her words. And somehow, regardless of its truth or not, it is a little voice telling me that I need to stay the course regarding certain dreams and goals, even if there are days I am certain the course is too difficult. So thank you, tarot card reader. Whether you know it or not, you’ve given me the courage to believe, not so much in the power of the cards, but in myself. Saying goodbye to someone or something you love is never easy. But it happens all the time in life. It doesn’t mean the love is gone. It just means it has changed or morphed or outgrown a heart’s size for myriad reasons. And for now, I am saying goodbye to something I love. It is with a heavy heart that I am closing The Nu Romantics’ Facebook group. It doesn’t mean The Nu Romantics are completely disappearing. Not now. Maybe not ever. But there are reasons why I no longer could put all my time into supporting a group at the expense of myself. It sounds selfish saying that out loud, but if there’s one thing I’ve been taught from writing—writing of ANY kind-- is that when we stop being honest, we have nothing to say that’s meaningful. I put my heart and soul into creating a group for writers and readers to come to explore and grow in a safe place. It was a place I got to fulfill so many of my creative urges. For anyone who knows me, they’ll tell you, my mind rarely shuts down. There is a creative side to me that’s almost a monster, gnawing at me, sometimes so voraciously, I completely lose myself. I’m constantly stopping to takes notes of ideas, writing, creating…and sadly, second guessing. I think a lot of us are like that. I’m not the exception. Without getting into too many details, I don’t think people realize the extent of work that goes into making a really successful group, and I’m not a half-assed person, about anything, a curse and a blessing. Some do realize it. Some joined us on the administration staff, only to realize how much work and dedication was required. At the expense of my own work and projects, I continuously put NuR first. Trying new things. Inventing new posts to engage people in an almost 1000-person group by its end. But I found when it came time for reciprocation, it just wasn’t there in the way I always dreamed. We, and our incredibly industrious PAs, were sharing and making graphics for people across all social platforms and commenting and encouraging people’s writing daily. We published two anthologies with no monetary compensation up front—collecting, editing, creating covers, editing, making graphics, editing (have I said editing?), and promoting and promoting and promoting. But The NuR family often remained silent during these times and the support only seemed to consist of a handful of people who really seemed to care or support those endeavors or understand the time and effort that goes into such things. To those people who were always there supporting the people in the group, and there are many, you are always a part of me and my growth and everyone else. And I thank you. You have marked me in the best possible way for life. That may sound bitter. It’s not. Please don’t take it that way. It’s a reality. NO ONE HAS MORE THAN 24 hours a day, that includes me and other admins. It’s not that people didn’t want to support (at least I hope so), it’s that none of us has that kind of time. We have lives. We have friends. We have families. We have lovers. We have full-time jobs. We write full-time too. A third full-time job? How? And yet, we admins were often expected to find time to support everyone all the time and when we didn’t, our inboxes would sometimes let us know.
So after months of debating and fighting with myself, it was time to take a break. I want to be creative. I want time to write. I want to support others. I, too, want support. And so starts a new chapter of how to balance the idea of success with that of support, especially when I have new releases or takeovers, how to balance creativity and time, and how to balance expectations with reality. The state of affairs in the world right now, especially in the US, won’t allow me to live on some cloud in the sky anymore. There is shit to be done. Work to do. And until someone devises a way to make more than 24-hours in a day, the reallocation of priorities is mandatory. Goodbye isn’t a word. It’s a feeling. And sometimes, goodbye feels right, but it’s never without sadness. I haven’t written a blog post in a long time! Writing a novel, editing the crap out of it, and publishing it is exhausting. And truth be told? I don’t know when/if I’ll be doing it again. I decided this summer I’m going to do what I love for the sheer joy of it, not to try to sell things. I’m going to write and read…and yes, even PAINT. And I’m not an artist that way, not at all. The few classes I’ve taken at the MFA have gone virtual for now, and I’m not doing that. But I discovered someone old to many but very new to me. Mr. Bob Ross. Now I know. I KNOW, “real” artists say he’s no good. No depth in his paintings. No real meaning or artistic value, except maybe in his sky or clouds. But you know what? I’m throwing my middle finger up at those people. The same things are often said about certain styles of poetry or erotic writing. There are all levels of all things, and Bob Ross did something magical. He painted for the sheer joy of it. He shared simple techniques and color combinations and brush strokes for the everyday man who never in his wildest dreams thought of painting. Just watching and listening to him is a meditation. I can feel my heartbeat slow, my breathing deepen, and watch the world disappear into this 30-minute blissful surrender. Writing these blogs make me feel the same way. It’s a mental therapy of sorts. Whether anyone reads them or not makes little difference to me. His style, though poo-poo’d generally speaking, puts one right into the landscape, takes the watcher along his journey into the mountains or oceans or trails or high into the sky or trees or deep into the brooks. And it’s no wonder his voice has become synonymous with the phenomenon known as ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response).( You can learn more ASMR by clicking this link if you’re unfamiliar.) I find myself lost in his voice as he makes “happy” trees and tells us it’s our paintings and to do whatever we want with them… The saddest part, for me was learning how young Bob Ross died, and further, that he didn’t make one damn dime off his paintings. Now? They go for 8,000 to 10,000 US dollars at auction houses. Not too bad for such a shitty painter, huh? Of course the art elite will say it’s because of his celebrity not his talent. I say? Thank you, Bob Ross. You’ve inspired me to try your technique. You’ve inspired me to buy some supplies, sit out in the sun this summer, and just…paint. Not for accolades. Not for money. Not to impress people with statements. But for pure joy.
When I write—my poetry in particular—if I inspire one person to try free-verse poetry, which I’ve been told I have successfully done--then that is enough for me. I don’t need to sell it. There is something to be said for doing the things we love just because…they bring us some semblance of joy, or release, or surrender in the magic of the imagination. Do what makes your soul buoyant. Whether pen or paintbrush, tune out the static chatter of naysayers, and remember: “We don’t make mistakes, just happy little accidents.” ~Bob Ross We all have guilty pleasures. What is yours? Mine, of course, is reading...but why have I latched on to the New Adult genre? What has grabbed me about it, and why would I write such a tale now that I'm far removed from being a college-aged student myself? It was a summer morning, and I had been binge reading on the After series (Are you familiar with it?) --you know that summer reading that you don't want to take too much time on or take too seriously? I was at my family camp (which I'm sad to say I no longer have), sitting on the dock, remembering young love and all the angst that comes with it, from years right there on the dock to that present moment, right there reading. And when I went back to the cabin, it just poured out, and I became a college freshman all over again, a young, shy woman trying to find her way, discovering who she was, deciding who she wanted to be, a girl who had been involved with dance and theatre and music her whole life, like the characters who appear in the story and not, and the story just appeared in my mind. I found myself going back there --to first loves and first times and self-discovery and heartbreak--and then the characters began to talk my ear off. Though fictional, the emotions were anything but. At its core, it's just a simple love story. But for anyone who has experienced the highs and lows of young love, you know: Love is never simple. There is something moving about New Adult literature, and there is something especially moving about romance. It's the time in our lives we are realizing ourselves with the freedom that allows it. We have rights and privileges we dreamed of having, without the heavy weight of responsibility, especially if you are fortunate to go to college without having to work full-time. Your mind is open, your eyes are wide, and you feel that inexplicable optimism and hope that anything is possible. You believe in change. You believe in fighting the cause. And you believe in love. Education does that to a person; you're closer to reaching your dreams, even as you embrace your dreams shifting. And love--love seems to happen most when your heart is vulnerable and available to it. We've not, probably, loved so fully before or been able to understand ourselves enough to know love. It's a time in our lives where it's easier to give ourselves, because we're finally starting to know ourselves... And so, Play Only For Me is a bit of that journey, two opposites, one a singer, one a guitarist, who try to find not only each other, but themselves. Thanks for being patient as I continue to write it. Today I ponder gender identity. And what it means for the future. If you haven’t noticed, the world is changing, and hopefully, becoming more aware and accepting and tolerant. I work in a liberal environment, and in an establishment that recognizes this. It’s as natural as breathing where I live and function. But I realize it’s not so in other parts of our beloved country. And to me, that is tragic. But I’m not asking about whether you believe in the changes. What I wonder is how the changing world is going to handle this in writing and in speaking. Having taught now for 7 years, I see the trends from when I first started teaching to now. As English teachers around the country used to cringe when pronouns didn’t match in number (one is he or she not they), in writing or public speaking, we’ve started to loosen our grip on those “rules.” While we’ve certainly learned a long time ago that “man” and “he” no longer apply to men AND women, it started to become cumbersome to ALWAYS have to write “he” or “she” or say “he” or “she.” We finally agreed—Okay. Okay. Use “they” if you must but change it to people or persons to match! And that can work…but it’s not. Trust me. As colleges around the country (including mine) change with the times, now we allow students to tell us what pronouns they use. In fact, it’s the first thing we do at orientation days—hand out name tags and ask students to write their pronouns. And further, our class rosters, now allow students to have the names they’d like used, rather than the name they were given at birth (Records holds the “real” names for tax purposes, financial aid, and the like.) In addition, many emails from professors are also signed with the pronouns they’d like to go by or be addressed with. All fine. Great. Inclusive acceptance. But let’s face it. This is getting too wordy and a little ridiculous. Not because I don’t believe in the idea of it, the idea that people should be who they ARE, but that perhaps we need one pronoun. Period. Language morphs with civilizations. Surely, we could pick one pronoun for singular and one pronoun for plural? Couldn’t we? When I first started watching Billions, and Taylor used “they” and all forms of it to identify “their” non-binary gender (and none of the other actors/characters blinked when using it themselves)—I thought—yes! Brilliant. So why can’t we all? What difference does it make? It would take time. It might take work. But give it a few years…and—guess what? Just like words like tweets or selfie or binge-watching or photo bombing or a million others didn’t exist before, so, too, could this change. Rosemary O’Brien for president you say? LOL. Nah. Warren is on “their” way. 😉 “He who is not contented with what he has, would not be contented with what he would like to have.” ~ Socrates Do you agree with this quote? Is this true for everyone? Is it human nature to never truly be satisfied? I wonder…are we always looking for…more? In one of my classes the other day, a student bragged that she can get all her music at such and such a place for $5, that she needn’t buy the music, that the entire album could be gotten for this cost. She bragged of the money she was saving, and I asked her: “But what of the artist who created it? Shouldn’t they be compensated for the amount of work they put into it? For their art?” And she looked at me like I was crazy. “Who cares,” she said with a roll of her eyes. Ironically, in another conversation I overheard, a physics teacher discussed jobs vs. careers with one of his students, saying that many of the “great” scientists had “jobs” to pay the bills but did things in the arts, the things they loved, on the side to be fulfilled and happy. Are, then, the arts and so forth, something that should be given away for free? Would we all be better off with “jobs,” contributing to society in a well-oiled kinda of way, the arts and music and writing be left to everyone to share with one another more freely? Would we all be happier this way? Of course, this is a more socialist way of thinking, but is money the only validation in life to success or happiness? Or is that only a capitalist's way of thinking?
And it got me thinking too, about selling books, the amount of time and effort that goes into it. Would I, personally, be happier taking all my books off the market, and simply sharing it freely, without the strain or stress of sales? Certainly, there are many writers who make a living off their writing, but the vast majority of us do not. I make, in a year, about what I can make teaching a couple courses. Should, then, the arts be something that is just freely given for the pure beauty of it? I’ve been at this racket for five years now, and some days, I really don’t know if it’s worth it. I’m fortunate that my “job” and my “career” of teaching lend itself to my creative side daily. But I’ve finally accepted that I’m a writer, that I am a poet. It’s a part of me, for better or worse. I do write for the pure joy…so why sell it then? And so, I look inward and ask myself what I asked you all above. With each small step to success, does it only make me want more? Does money, as a motivator, only lead to dissatisfaction? I suppose I’ll have to let you know when I’m famous beyond Papua New Guinea (inside joke—but those of you who have been following me for a while, may understand). For now, I try to find contentment with what I have. There’s been a bit of…hmmmm…I’m not really sure what to call it. Nastiness? Drama? Controversy? Whatever you call it, I’m not being a part of it. Perhaps you’re wondering what I’m talking about? And I took a long time today deciding whether or not I should write about it. Am I just adding fire to the flames by writing my whole response this way? I don’t think so. I have every right to voice my opinion. And I believe there needs to be more support in the indie community rather than in-fighting. I'm tired of it. Let me say this: If you’re an author/writer/poet, and you think putting down other authors publicly is fun, or you think you’re one hundred times better than other writers, or you can’t have a conversation or healthy debate about writing but turn to name-calling or worse, have others do it for you, I’m out. I’m not here to do that. I’m here to raise and lift others, write, share my work, and celebrate the written word with readers and fellow authors. If I don’t like another author’s writing, that’s that. I don’t read it. Or support it much or at all. (If it is abuse or something nefarious, that is different. I’m not talking about that.) And if you enjoy being involved with authors who do that as a reader or as their fan club, and if I see you being a part of that or a leader of it, jumping on a bandwagon to verbally assault other authors, I’m out of there too. With that said, I believe authors should try to be as honest as they can, that if they say something is autobiographical it should be, and that they shouldn’t be passing things off as the gospel truth. Remember that book there that Oprah recommended? A Million Little Pieces by James Frey, the guy who said it was autobiographical when it wasn’t? Not cool. I agree. Go, Oprah. Glad he got his rear-end handed to him. But see how it came to the surface because of astute readers? Not some other author leading some kind of witch hunt? No one likes dishonesty or being fed a crockpot of lies. No one. But in this indie community, if readers can’t figure that out for themselves, it’s not my job to take care of it. That shit takes care of itself. Watching authors act like petulant and jealous competitors is not my jam. I like to stick with those who support others vying for a chance. I like the underdogs. I love the indie community and the authors I’ve met along the way with the same mentality. I have too much going on in my flesh and blood life to worry about people typing anonymously behind a screen, suddenly so brave, who believe it’s okay to attack and ridicule others. If we can’t have a conversation like adults, if you’re here to make waves to sell books, good luck drowning. I won’t be there to lend a preserver. I’ll be long gone by then.
Peace. Paper Cuts was months in the making, where eight poets came together, shared their work, critiqued each other, applauded each other, and worked as a team of artists to become better poets. At times, it was difficult, and sometimes the paper cuts took longer to heal, but they did, and so, too, did we. Our words, like skin, became more beautiful, textured, and interesting over time. Where layers grew, so did our integrity and character. It took some mistakes, some Band-aids, and some trial and error; but mostly, it took vulnerability. Without that, there is no growth for a poet. And as we exposed our wounds, slowly allowing ourselves to become more and more uncomfortable, we realized our deepest poetry was brimming just below our surfaces. We are now ready to share our work with you, hoping our poetry cuts into your heart, your feelings, your emotions, and that you’ll heal, somehow, along with us. To read moe about our journey and our special thanks, get your copy of PAPER CUTS: We bleed but do not die. 3/21/2019 Head-Hopping. What Say You? What Is the Difference Between Omniscient POV and Head-Hopping?Read NowI'm having a dang time with my latest novel, which I love, let me tell you! It's my first foray into Third Person, Omniscient (I've done limited before), and I fear the dreaded swear word: "Head-Hopping." How does an author get into the heads of her characters without jarring the reader out of the groove? I've come across two blog articles I share with you here, and there seems to be no definitive answers! I'll share them with you here: WHAT MAKES OMNISCIENT POV DIFFERENT FROM HEAD-HOPPING and THE OFFICIAL RULES ON HEAD-HOPPING. So because this argument runs the gamut, I'd like to ask you to read a short excerpt and provide your opinion. Can I head-hop within the same scene? Or is that a big no-no? Do I need to only switch perspectives from chapter to chapter? (Oh. That will really fuck things up!). Did you even notice? If Nora Roberts can do it, why can't I? (Don't answer that. I realize the obvious answer. LOL!) I welcome your comments. Please! Constructive. Brutal. Honest. Just Feedback PLEASE! I'm so close to finishing this story...Thank you for your help! UNEDITED EXCERPT:
“Okay.” She started to comb her hair and realized how snarled it was, as she hadn’t left the conditioner in long enough, fretting over Colton in her dorm room, alone, doing who knows what. “You can come sit on the bed with me. I don’t bite, Princess,” Colton offered. She was petrified. Petrified that he would see how affected she was by his presence. She had this wet discomforting ache between her thighs just by being in the room with him, so close, and yet she didn’t want to let on. “I know that.” She walked over and sat down. “So…we left off pretty early. I think we have seven questions to go.” He looked for the handout in his book bag as she tried to yank the comb out of her hair, realizing it was stuck. “Fuck,” she grumbled. Colton started laughing. “Need help?” “No. I’m fine.” She pulled the comb in vain. “Come here.” He scooted over to her, leaving little to no room between them. She held her breath as Colton tangled his fingers in her hair, trying to free the rogue comb. His hand accidentally brushed her breast and she gasped, not knowing if he even realized it. She thought she might actually hyperventilate. “Do you have it?” she asked, barely audible. “You have so much hair, Lauren,” he spoke softly back to her, and she felt her body trembling. He was rarely kind to her. Her face was only inches from his. She could smell a mixture of chocolate and something else, something she was dying to taste on his breath. He looked into her eyes, smoldering her, igniting her in such a way that she had to suppress every urge, every instinct, every desire not to beg him to kiss her. She almost just blurted it out. It felt like they were frozen like that, stuck in the moment, both desiring one another and not being able to act or move. He got closer, if that was even possible, trying to remove the tangled hair from the comb. He didn’t let go of her eyes. “Why were you crying today, Lauren?” His voice was husky, low. She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to wreck whatever moment they were having. “Tell me,” he whispered. She shut her eyes. Squeezed them tight. She didn’t want to tell him. She didn’t want to admit that he had affected her, was affecting her. She didn’t want to tell him her whole, horrible past. His fingers danced in her hair and she stifled a moan. It felt so good. He grabbed her face in his hands. “Look at me.” He spoke so tenderly. She didn’t understand him, what he was doing with her. One minute cold. The next, hot. “Please,” he said. “Look at me.” She opened her eyes as he held her face in place. He wanted to kiss her, desperately. He knew she wanted him to, at least in that moment. He knew she did. Her eyes told him everything. And right then, they were a brilliant blue. “Colton.” Her tone was greedy, begging for something. “I don’t want you to cry.” And what he said next was not what he had planned. “I want to make it better.” She couldn’t breathe. It was all-consuming. He was all consuming. It was a pleasurable suffocation, but it would kill her if he didn’t do something, kiss her, tell her he cared, something, anything. Her whole body pulsed. Her lower belly tightened into something she had never felt as warmth spread out between her thighs. She felt like she'd never be able to catch her breath. “What the…” Beth froze upon opening the door. Colton let go and Lauren pushed herself away from him as quickly as she could, letting all the air escape her lungs that she had been holding in, as he left her there, wobbling, unsure of what had just happened. Lauren tried to find composure, embarrassed, searching Colton’s eyes again, but he was gone, distant, holding the questionnaire, as if they hadn’t just shared a tender, close moment. “What’s going on Masters?” Beth probed. “Are you okay, Lauren?” “Yeah of course…I…we…” “She’s fine, Beth. We were just catching up on some homework. I was just leaving.” “Homework? Really, Colton? You must think I’m stupid or blind or something.” “I got my comb stuck in my hair,” Lauren explained, pointing to the virtual bird’s nest stuck in her hair. “Colton was helping me to get it out.” “Oh shit.” Beth couldn’t help but start laughing. “Let me.” Beth sat next to them on the bed, taking up the space between them that had appeared the moment she opened the door and ruined the moment. Colton stood up. “Later,” he said as he made his way to the door. His white t-shirt was dripping wet from Lauren’s hair. She couldn’t believe how close he had been to her. She didn’t want him to leave. “I’ll walk you out,” Lauren offered and got up as Colton was already exiting the room. “No need, Lauren. I’ve got stuff to do.” Some things are meant to be messy. Hair. Chocolate. Watercolors. But life? It shouldn't be a complete mess. I realized recently that my closet was a bit of a metaphor for my life. I needed to streamline some things; lose things that were weighing me down; get organized; prioritize in what order things should be; in short, I needed to pay attention to my mental health. So…I got myself a new closet, quite literally, and slowly, I’m finding my frenetic, rat-race kind of existence beginning to change. I’m learning those changes are not just about where I can find my favorite shoes or t-shirt or jeans, but it’s about finding what makes me thrive and happy and what people I want to keep around me in order to do that (and what people I don’t.) My closet woes were really just a manifestation of my real-life woes. And I don’t need to be loyal to a pair of shoes, who frankly, are too expensive. Holding onto “people” who no longer belong, who take me granted, or trying to fit too many things into such a small window of time, is taking a toll; they’re too expensive. And I don’t have to pay for them. Or feel guilty about it. I can get a new closet. Rearrange a few things. Finally get rid of the things that no longer work. And so I did. And so, I am. Friends laugh and say: “First-world problems,” and yes, it does seem a bit trite to spend money on a closet. But everything is relative, isn't it? The mess, the chaos, the last-minute searches for things was spilling over into everything else. Always late as it is, it only further agitated me, furthered my anxieties, furthered everything into a panic. I don’t need to live that way. The closet is the first step. I’ve decluttered, created a new work space, put on a new coat of paint, eliminated furniture, sorted boxes of junk, bought new artwork…and that’s just the outside. Next? The inside.
So if you don’t see me around as much, well..it’s because I’m cleaning out my closet. Not everything deserves to stay. Not everything belongs. Some things just simply don’t match anymore. 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. Friendship, true friendship, is rare. Can you find it even with people you haven’t met in real life? Do you have friends online that you feel closer to than some in your physical world? And if so, do you think there’s something wrong with that? That there is something wrong with you? Must you be with someone in the flesh, in the real “touching” world to be close to them? To have a real relationship? I used to think I had the answers to those questions. But I don’t. I have a life outside of online social media. A full life. Sometimes too full to be honest. But this online life of mine feels every much as real. Am I fooling myself? Is this as fleeting as the online internet provider’s connection? Some days, I think yes. People I thought were my friends disappoint. Lie. Say they support but don’t. But that is no different than real life friends or co-workers, people who constantly let you down or don’t have the same work ethic as you. Self-absorbed people who talk and talk and talk about themselves but never ask how you are doing…who don't see the consequences of their actions and often play the victim. Those people, I’m sure, are the same in their everyday, flesh lives as well. That's just who they are. It doesn’t have anything to do with social media or being online. We can’t “fake” the essence of who we are. Everyone’s true self comes out eventually, especially when you’ve been in the game this long. I’d rather have 10 close friends I can count on than 1000 fake ones, only after self- preservation. So today, I want to dedicate this post to tried and true friends, and in particular, a very special group of friends, The Writers of NuR, as we just saw our first anthology, Beyond the Last Page, go live and with great success! You are my writing comrades, but it’s more for me. We are friends. I count on you. And I hope you can count on me. We worked through deadlines, edits, critiques, and publishing. We listened to each other. We encouraged each other. We supported each other and left our egos at the door. We cheered each other on, sometimes hearing things about our work we didn't want to. We grew together. And we produced something I’m quite proud of, and quite smoothly I might add, a group dedicated to something outside of themselves. Though some of you I haven’t met in the flesh, you are every bit as real to me, sometimes more so. I like waking up knowing there is someone there to say good morning and really mean it, who listens with sincerity, and who isn’t a fair-weather fan, but a tried and true friend. Congratulations to our first, and, hopefully, many more successes. Cheers! -I love to write blogs, and I still love to read them! It brings life into focus for me. I still peruse the internet looking for blogs that interest me on numerous topics. I enjoy it. I started writing my own blogs, because I needed a voice to record my thoughts as they were happening to me. Events of the day. Things people would say to me that made me want to scream or rejoice. Feelings. Relationships. Emotions. Basically in a word: Therapy. Or in another: Health. I found that writing down my feelings and thoughts, much like a journal, help me process. Lets me move on. Forces me to think, deal with my cauldron of demons, and exhale or heal or make sense of a world I sometimes can't. And maybe it helps someone else. I never thought to publish them here, like I have been regularly. Who cares? Who would read them? Most of the time, they're stream of conscious type rambles that I think will be about one thing and morph into another. It was friend of mine who said: "Publish these. And not just on your website." I'm still debating that. Probably not. But as I learned of a new feature here on my website, Categories, I started to update my posts into topics for people to find easier, and I realized, I've written about a lot of topics (see right-hand column), some more meaningful than others. From poetry and philosophy... ...to goals, religion, and sexuality... I've got shit to say! But who's reading them? Am I wasting my time sharing them with you, maybe a handful of people who might click over and see what I have to say? Again, I ask myself, "Who cares? Do people even read blogs anymore? Is blogging a silly thing of the past? Is blogging dead?" A co-writer recently said: No one reads blogs anymore. Stop spending your time of this crap. It's not like it's driving sales... No. It's probably not. But I guess it doesn't matter. I write these for me just as I do my poetry. I write them because I'm an emotional person. I write them, because if I don't, I might carry things with me far too long, and that's not who I am. I write them to forgive. I write them to love. I write them to discover who I am. Plainly, I write them, because I'm human, and if I didn't, I might implode. Does it matter if people read them or praise me or any other reason? I would love it if they did. But I've realized that's not IT for me like it might be for other people. It will NEVER be the reason I write ANYTHING. Fuck that.
I've written them because I don't have a choice. I've written them to improve. As a writer. As a person. And as a thinker. There are too many days I want to give up because of something someone else tells me. I didn't think I'd write a blog today, "too busy," I said to myself...and then, I found myself writing, without even a conscious decision to do so! And here I am, finding a way to process things on my mind. It's helped me work out my demons. And what I really discovered is that being a writer is happening all day long for me. It's a part of who I am. I can't shut it off even if I wanted to. I have a voice. We all do. And this is what I do. I write. So even if blogging is dead. This little ol' blogger is alive...the tree really does still make the noise, even if no one is there to hear it. When I lost my aunt in December, my cousins asked me to rifle through pictures to see what I had, and it reminded me of so many things. There is something lost now, isn’t there? With our phones and our i-pads and our video capacity. We seem to lose so much, and one would think it would be the opposite, but it really isn’t. There is something special about those old photographs, much like old letters or postcards we’ve kept over the years. There’s something about holding them in our hands, touching them, running our fingers across the front, flipping them over to read the back, see the year, maybe the place. My mother was forever marking up those photographs. And everything looks so…I don’t know, pretty and nostalgic, especially when in black and white, like some of my mom’s baby pictures or first communion I came across. They somehow feel alive. They feel as if they're breathing right there next to us. The same is true of old letters or writing. There really is nothing that can replace handwriting. I remember holding Emily Dickinson’s work once in the basement annex of Amherst College, wearing gloves, being watched as if I might steal them. Smart. I wanted to. I regret the love letters I tossed or the notes from friends during class. I had a best friend and she and I wrote old-fashioned letters to one another in middle school, professing our “friends forever” in black-ink promises, only to be tossed as I moved or aged. Not enough space. Oh, the regret! A new study I read recently stated that this generation (is that me?) is losing living in the moment. That everyone is so Instagram-ized, trying to take the best pictures possible – oh, look at me eating this; or oh, I just saw this magnificent sunset; or oh, look at my dog being silly—that we’re no longer really living in the moment, or even enjoying it, or even REMEMBERING IT at all later, but instead, living for the moment to take a damn picture. How sad if that’s true! What will become of our memories or experiences if we’re so hung up on taking the picture, not for ourselves, but instead for someone else to say: Oh, isn’t Rosemary the coolest cat ever?
When I came across some of the pictures, it reminded, too, of my childhood and a scene in Edge of Torment I took from my own life, where Patricia, Annabelle’s best friend, has displayed a photograph of the two of them at Patricia's brother Billy’s wedding. It’s two best friends in a pool wearing funky glasses, and I remember exactly the moment I stole the idea from. It was with my cousin, my favorite cousin still to this day, and at the service, I asked her if she too remembered those days in the back yard at 4 or 5 or if the memory was only because of that picture. She remembered it just as I had and, though sad at where we were presently, we smiled and laughed and hugged, poured some wine afterwards, and sat down to reminiscence. That’s what photographs do for us. And I’m grateful I still have boxes upon boxes of them even if I’ve lost so many of the people in them. They are engraved somewhere inside my heart’s mind, far from being lost. And that brought me comfort. 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! ;) ~Robert Frost We talk of New Year resolutions this time of year, something we use for fresh starts, new outlooks, and perhaps ways to organize our lives, reflect on what is working and what isn’t. No life is perfect, and sometimes it can feel as if it’s spinning out of control. The start of a new year gives us hope. Hope to right the rails, hope to plod through the storm, hope that we will take our lives back. I’m fortunate that I get a long vacation this time of year after the madness peaks and explodes. I am never a rash person. And I never make decisions under duress. Ever. When things settle, so do I, and I think. And this year will be a particularly pensive one, especially when it comes to writing. This year I will rethink my journey. I’ve traveled near and far all at the same time. I’ve written my dark fantasies far removed from my world and I’ve written my autobiographical truths into them. I’ve written sweet romance in distant tales and turbulent ones that mirrored my own past. I’ve taken leaps I never thought I would into new writing territory, some long, some short, and I’ve stayed in the same place with dear friends and goals, honing my skills to be better. And I’ve bled my soul into verse, reaching new depths, publishing a collection, and continually doing so every day, challenging myself to grow, steady on the course. I write because I have to. Make no mistake there. And I’ve said it a million times. But what got me publishing? That. That is what I need to ponder. And I need to ponder it deeply. With Amazon as seemingly the only real avenue these days (yes there are others, less lucrative ways), I must ask myself: Do I want to continue to support a company that puts everyone else out of business? That has arbitrary whims that can destroy years of work in one fell swoop of a sword? That hasn’t just slashed the little man but has slashed large corporations, toy stores and craft stores, leaving only one option: them. We live in a world of greed and instant gratification. Of a I-want-it-now-or-at-least-no-later-than-tomorrow world, and I want it at the cheapest price. And we indies rarely can make it, not truly, not the way we hoped, not the way we need to make it a dream realized. Is it worth it anymore? As many of you know, a tale I’ve cultivated for a couple years now come to fruition, and it was arbitrarily and swiftly torn down. There was a time when I shared my writing for free, where it was read copiously, where I didn’t worry about my “rank” or if it sold, where I actually placed my head on my pillow at night and slept, and where the only reason I wrote was to exorcise my demons, to cut open wounds to bleed to heal. The wounds now almost never stop bleeding. The Band-Aids I’ve used no longer work. So I end this year with some questions to answer, ones only I can do. It’s true. We can only travel one path at a time; we are but one traveler. If I choose to take the one less traveled this time, I, like Frost, doubt I should I ever come back to the other. But as I write this, I ponder that, perhaps, there are more than only two roads, that I just need to see them in the yellow wood. And maybe, just maybe, knowing that, will make all the difference. We live in an age that contradicts itself. Do you notice that? Recycle but not plastic bags. Open your mind but not when it disagrees with my politics. Don't pirate my work but, here, it's all free. And buy books, but save trees. It's a polarizing time to live, and it's also a confusing time. And what is happening to the poet in all of this? Is there any such thing anymore? Has the internet killed the poet? Does anyone BUY poetry? Or are they just cruising the internet, reading what snippets come their way? This discussion has been on my mind lately. and I asked if people still bought poetry books. Do you? Or are poetry books a bit of a thing of the past, that the internet is littered with poetry if you want it, so why buy a damn thing? I buy books. Oh do I buy books. Not like the ones I write much, but nonetheless, I'm constantly reading before I fall asleep at night. Many of my newer books are on my kindle now, yes, because of the environment, but also for its convenience. I used to be against the kindle, until, of course, I actually owned one and could take and read as many books as I wanted at once. But poetry books are the one thing, besides my own, I do not have on my kindle. I own Dickinson and Shakespeare and Cummings and Plath and Whitman and...and...and...all in paperback or hardcover. I read them over and over. Paper books, somehow, are just perfect to plop down in a chair with by the fire to read. One poem or two at a sitting, sipping wine or drinking tea, god, I want to be doing it right now! I have no idea what it is about it that needs to be paper for me when it comes to poetry. Maybe it's because somehow poetry carries with an antiquated sense of romance, perhaps one we fear we are losing with the ubiquitous presence of the internet and technology and the constant barrage of poetry in bite-sizes, quick candies, not to be savored and marked and shared as we once did, but now to be shared in a sentence or two on those damn squares I've bitched about before (and won't do it again. You can read it here: BLOG) as if bumper stickers are poetry. Grab a coffee. Read a line. Breathe out the hot steam of coffee and call yourself a poetry lover. I'm not sure if the internet has killed or is killing the poet or not. There are certainly no shortages of poets out there. I, myself, call myself a poet, never said a great one, but I am a poet nonetheless. Hell, I think everyone has a poet in him/her if I'm being honest, so who I am to say what is and what isn't great poetry. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe Instagram squares are the best invention ever made for the writer. I will say this. I think really great poetry gets overshadowed by what has become standard poetry. People want their quick fixes. They don't often want to think or reread poetry or read it aloud. Today, if it's not understood on the first read, someone shouts: "I hate poetry. I don't understand it. I don't get poetry," unless, of course, they find it on Instagram. And the moon is mentioned. Next to the sun. :) Maybe I'm not young anymore. Maybe I need to get with the times. Or maybe, I'll just sit down here at work for a few moments, savor a poem or two, and shut off the internet for a little longer than a flash of a disappearing tweet. I often wonder about my writing. Where it came from. Why. I particularly wonder about why I feel compelled to write erotica and erotic romance with BDSM. Why it has dark themes. Sometimes dub-con. Why alpha males? Why damaged males? Why happy endings? What is it that turns me on about such themes? Have you thought about this if you write? How about what you read? Have you ever been judged because of it? And if so, do you hide it? Behind kindles? Or behind pseudonyms? Do you ask yourself why you’re drawn to what you’re drawn to when it comes to the erotic? Or romance? Is there a formative experience you can pinpoint it to? More importantly, have you been able to answer it? I think I can understand it for myself…somewhat. My formative years. The boyfriends I had and the age. The poet with tough family life whose middle name was "Angst," who was sent away, later joined the military, and went AWOL. Perhaps, because I wanted to help him, “save” him from his past disappointments and couldn’t. Perhaps I like to see those happy endings in my romance books that may reflect what I wish I could have done. Keep the juicy angst but be able to fix it all in the end. I don’t know. I’m still thinking about that. I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t much care about the whys anymore. It just “is.” A few have criticized my choices in my “fiction" as a result. Recently, a “friend” who claims not be judgmental in any form (let me clear my throat), stormed “off the set” because of some of the contents on my books, unfriending, saying nasty things about MY 'character' because of the “characters” in my “fictional” books. Did I say “fiction”? Good thing she’s not judgmental, huh? And I see it happen to a lot of authors. It's not just me. There’s so many varying forms and levels of sexuality from heterosexual to bisexual to pansexual to homosexual and everything in between. I’m heterosexual. And yes, this may sound silly, but sometimes, I almost feel like THAT is a bad thing to be writing about these days. I certainly felt that way with my previous publisher. I couldn’t care less which way you wave your flag. Love. Lust. Fuck. Kiss. Sleep with whomever you want. But how come traditional roles of love and relationships, conflict and resolution, falling in love and marriage is somehow bad, uninteresting, not important anymore? Says who? It’s what I, personally, enjoy reading in this genre. And it’s what I enjoy writing. I won’t apologize for it. Just as someone who wants to write about transgender relationships or gay sex or bisexual untraditional tropes. Go for it. What's more, and maybe this is the rub, this genre, this trope, this story, is STILL quite popular among many romance readers, readers in general, that even in our changing world of more and more acceptance of non-traditional roles, the majority still like the trope of boy meets girl, they fall in love, and live happily ever after but not until there is a helluva lot of angst and conflict first. So what? Live and let live. I wish the judging would stop. On both sides of this coin. What difference does it make if it’s well-written and makes a reader feel? Find your audience. And keep producing what both you and they are looking for. It’s really that simple. Add a few more ingredients to this madness, and it might make a little more sense where her anger comes from. Take someone who is insecure, sexually confused (which can do a number on anyone’s self-esteem), a not-so-pleasant introduction to sex (not cool by anyone’s standards), and then consider the effects of dealing with all that mentally. Therein comes the trigger "effect." And then, the lashing out occurs. And bam. Some of us land right in the firing line, because partially, it gets her goat that people are not only reading it but really liking that which she detests. In this light, it becomes a little more understandable, but in a rational mind, we can see how flawed that is.
I write more than alpha male erotic romance. If you don’t know that by now, I question why you’re even reading this. There are pieces of me in my characters. Some more than others. But I am not my characters and my characters are not me. I think the best thing we can do is write if we’re writers; read if we’re readers; and make no apologies for what we want to read and write. If people continue to read my work, I’ll keep writing them. When they stop, I’ll probably stop publishing too. But I’ll never stop writing. And I will not apologize to anyone who can’t differentiate between fiction and the author of said fiction. Experience Informs Our Writing But It Doesn't Define Us. "I was deceiving Scott, I was deceiving Michael, and I was deceiving myself if I didn’t think they were both going to find out the truth about each other eventually." |
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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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