Today I look at some self-proclaimed avant garde "radical feminist" artists. In light of what I see a lot of around Facebook, I ask you a few simple questions. How can it be that in the year 2017, almost 2018, misogyny and mistreatment of women still seems to be prevalent, accepted, and propagated? I won't get into what provoked me last night surfing Facebook to post this, except to say it was a photo-shopped, 'ENHANCED' post that got the attention of both men and women alike. What worried me were the responses, both male and female, that were being made, derogatory comments, not admiration comments of the female body (and not-yet-women even), but an objectification and ridicule of it. Am I being too sensitive? I don't think so. Take a look at the current news right now and the scandals going on in the "civilized" country of the good ol' USA regarding the treatment of women. "What year is it?" I often ask myself. And why do posts like the one I saw last night get the most comments and interaction?
Beyond that, take a look at these artists and the running theme that they needed to change their names and sometimes even appearance in order, as Lynn Hershman Leeson stated, "to simply to become 'themselves'.” Not pretty enough to too pretty, it seems women still can't earn a break. Hannah Wilke, for example, was critiqued for being too pretty to be taken seriously. "Because the conventionally stunning artist incorporated her own body into her work, often nude, she was constantly accused of being narcissistic and flaunting her appearance" and "encountered throughout her life that she was too beautiful." And Valie Export said that in order for women to achieve a self-defined view of themselves and a different view of the place of women in society, that women must participate in "the construction of reality via the building blocks of media-communication." I'm sad to say that the post I saw last night and the commentary is not succeeding in building blocks but instead, knocking them down. What say you? Women should be able to be who they are, sexually, sensually, and intellectually. So why the constant sarcastic poking of the female body parts, as if they are nothing more, especially if they don't fit some stereotypical idea of beauty or poise? "8 Radical, Feminist Artists From The 1970s Who Shattered The Male Gaze" by Priscilla Frank
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“Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book.” ― John Green, The Fault in Our Stars My thoughts, as usual, are not singular. So, read on! The other day I was relaying a story to a friend about the first time I really knew I loved reading, like literally felt it in my bones, a visceral, bodily reaction. It happened during school, sophomore year, in the middle of class, and maybe it was the way the teacher read it aloud. I’m not sure. It wasn’t erotic in any sense (though it was romantic, having to do with nature, but was not a sexual poem or sensual words that are meant to titillate that way), and my body reacted much the way it reacts when I’m stimulated sensually or sexually. I went to my bookshelf to see if I had a copy of said text and was dismayed to see that I had given it away to a local book collection drive, and when moving a few times, didn’t feel like packing them. I became quite sad. And I started to think about all the books I had given away, thinking at the time: I have a Kindle now; or if I need the story or quote, I’ll just look it up online; or there is no need for paper books anymore, we must consider the environment! I’m really upset with myself. There is something organically beautiful about going back and reading a “hard” copy of a text, seeing your notes and scribbles, the weathered pages of love, your first reactions. I may still have the text at school in my office. I’m not sure. But my question to you is: Do you have that same reaction to reading? When you stumble across something that moves you, does your body viscerally react? And, do you still save your books? Or still prefer hard copies over electronic? Sigh… I am light and dark, soft and rough. I am nuanced and loud, shy and strong. I love, vastly, an ocean of pulsing veins, and I mourn in salted tributaries. My heart beats fast. Staccato. And sometimes, it barely beats at all. I am a writer, highly emotive, who happens to ink and record the tapping of music on a keyboard. I am human. Full-stop... Whenever I seek professional help (no, not that kind of professional help, marketing professional help!), I am invariably told: "R.B., you need to BRAND yourself." So I ask the talented Lilah E. Noir to send me a "signature," I visually adapt my social media accounts to match, and I attempt to provide consistent writing "columns" or weekly prompts in the form of #sixwords Saturday or #ShakespeareSunday or #writingromancelines or #foundpoetryFriday to everything in between. And that's just the problem. I cannot categorize myself or exactly what it is I do. I am a writer who doesn't fit into a "branding" category. My mood and my writing runs the gamut on any given day. Those who have met me through The Nu Romantics (http://thenuromantics.weebly.com/) might know me as the sweet romantic; those who met me before I published "for cash" on Literotica might see me as the dark, dubcon erotic writer who later turned those stories into what has become the Thorne series and the Imogen series; others may see me as a writer of BDSM with a fetish for orgasm denial (it is a fetish, sometimes, but that is a topic for another day!) if they followed my Natalie's Edge series ; and still others, who may have found me on Facebook as a "friend," may not even know I've published a damn thing! As I embark to finally compile some of my poetry in a published collection, I come back to branding. I haven't the faintest idea how to market myself as a "poet." I somehow got categorized as a writer of erotica, but that is the last category I would put myself. Though I write quite a bit of erotic stuff filled with kinky sex, it's never without a story; it's never without heart; and it's never without the contemplation of the dark and light of the human spirit. Instead, I guess I would say I write about the human condition, with all its nuanced flaws, the angst of relationships and folly, love and all its misunderstandings, and often, how those damaged find redemption and happiness.
So who am I? I cannot be categorized or pigeon-holed. I'm human first. And I don't see the world in black and white or live that way or write that way. Most of us don't. Most of us just live and breathe and connect as human beings, even if it's only through the lovingly-worn pages of the creased corners of our favorite books. I am Rosemary O'Brien. My friends call me R.B. I am uniquely me, and I'll leave the branding to you. Happy birthday, Louisa May Alcott! Today I revisit something I wrote for The Nu Romantics Facebook page, something we call #LAPH (Literature, Art, Photography, and History.) Louisa May Alcott published her very first in 1852 in the Saturday Evening Gazette, “The Rival Painters: A Story of Rome.” Of course, we know her best for her book Little Women (1868) and The Fruitlands in Harvard, MA, a now beautiful museum and place to visit, literally in my backyard (okay maybe not literally but close enough!). First purchased by Charles Lane, a farm of 90 acres and old red farmhouse to start a communal utopia based on principles of transcendentalism with Louisa’s father, Amos Bronson Alcott, The Fruitlands “experiment” lasted only 7 months. A total of eleven adults eventually joined Fruitlands (some sources say a dozen and of course, there were several children), but it doesn’t detract from what they thought and did. I have always been fascinated with transcendentalists as thinkers and transcendentalism as a literary movement. Sound familiar? Transcendentalism emerged from English and German Romanticism, Biblical criticism, the skepticism of David Hume, and the transcendental philosophy of Immanuel Kant and German Idealism, to name a few. It was also influenced by Hindu texts on philosophy of the mind and spirituality, especially the Upanishads. Here are some basics: 1. First, they were looking for literary independence from England. They deliberately went about creating literature, essays, novels, philosophy, poetry, and other writing that were clearly different from anything from England, France, Germany, or any other European nation. 2. Most of the Transcendentalists became involved as well in social reform movements, especially anti-slavery and women's rights. 3. Transcendentalists were strong believers in the power of the individual. Their beliefs were closely linked with those of the Romantics, but differ by an attempt to embrace or, at least, to not oppose the empiricism of science. 4. A core belief of transcendentalism is in the inherent goodness of people and nature. Emerson believed that people were naturally good and that everyone's potential was limitless. He inspired his colleagues to look into themselves, into nature, into art, and through work for answers to life's most perplexing questions. 5. They believed in the soul (the oversoul) as: the human soul is immortal, and immensely vast and beautiful; human conscious ego is slight and limited in comparison to the soul, even though we habitually mistake our ego for our true self; and at some level, the souls of all people are connected, and this includes everything, down to nature. 6. Emerson went further to describe nature as the closest experience there is to experiencing the presence of God. To truly appreciate nature, one must not only look at it and admire it, but also be able to feel it taking over the senses. This process requires solitude, in uninhabited places like the woods. His “transparent eyeball” is a representation of an eye that is absorbent rather than reflective, and therefore takes in all that nature has to offer. Emerson strongly espoused that the individual become one with nature. The Fruitlands took the philosophy to heart and were quite austere, too austere and impractical. The economy of Fruitlands was based on a single principle: abstinence from worldly activity: The members of Fruitlands never tried to produce more goods than they could use; and they believed that a surplus of material goods would inhibit spirituality.
They were also vegan. Absolutely no meat or other animal products were eaten (hence the name Fruitlands). In fact, nothing from animals (including wool, honey, wax, or manure) nor even animal labor were used by the community. The founders felt nothing should be taken from animals, for they should be “as free as humans.” Bronson Alcott’s idealism was so strong, in fact, that he would not permit canker-worms to be disturbed, and forbade the planting of such vegetables and roots as grow downward instead of upward into the air! Furthermore, the reformers believed that spiritual freedom depended on dispensing with the labor of animals, and so, because many on the commune were philosophers rather than farmers, the experiment only lasted seven months. Many saw the community as an opportunity to be housed and fed while sitting in apple trees writing poetry or thinking great thoughts. After all, it is much easier to dream of utopias than to plant seeds on your hands and knees. Then, too, often the philosophers would travel off to lecture and spread the news of the utopia, leaving Mrs. Alcott, the children, and the only practical man, Palmer, to do all the work. Louisa May Alcott wrote about Fruitlands in her short piece, “Transcendental Wild Oats.” Louisa was only a child at the time, but she stored the memories of Fruitlands and later wrote this story about her father’s experiment. Bronson was unable to support the family and, afterward, Louisa dedicated most of her life to supporting them. After the publication of her first story, she made a living off stories for more than two decades. And although Louisa grew up in an extraordinary political atmosphere, thanks to her father, who was friends with some of the most influential thinkers of his time — Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, Fuller, Whitman, etc.--he never managed to earn a living or take care of his family. As Louisa put it, "He was a man in a balloon, with his family holding the ropes trying to hold him down to Earth. He seemed to live on air and in the air, and had no concern about earning a living. It didn't seem to bother him that his family was literally starving" (NPR: American Lives). She became the breadwinner and the caretaker, an ardent supporter of women’s issues and spent most of her life caring for her family financially, emotionally, and physically. Her father died in March 1888, and she followed him just two days later. So, if you’ve read this far, or even skimmed, I think it’s safe to say, that balance is essential. We may want to change the world, we may want to live out our ideals, but we do have to function in society and the real world. My favorite movie is Captain Fantastic. I challenge you to watch it. I think it does a pretty good job at exploring that very balance that is, for lack of better words, uniquely human. Thanks for reading! xo
IT'S FINALLY HERE!
It takes courage to put your work out there for others to see and read. It's one thing to write; it's another to make it available. For each time we write, we share a bit of who we are, and many of us are still struggling to define exactly what that is. Writing is one way to get closer to that answer, and oftentimes, the journey isn't neat or easy but instead, a messy introspection that often doesn't reveal itself to us until we read it back to ourselves. And sometimes, it's startling. Our writing is a mirror and not all mirrors are created equal, but they usually don't lie.
The Nu Romantics was formed to revolt against the preconceived notions of ROMANCE and to elucidate, through all mediums of art, particularly writing, that the
"romantic" is found in more than happy endings, that it can be found in everything from nature to pain to the erotic to even death... Read the article here that started it all:
Pieces of Us …where light and dark come together in a beautiful mosaic.
Like the pieces of a puzzle, both smooth and jagged, fitting together to create a beautiful picture, or a thousand snowflakes falling together against the blackest of nights, so, too, do The Nu Romantics come together to bring you a one-of-a-kind collection of art, poetry, short stories, and flash fiction. Written from the heart--or heartbreak-- of its creators, The Nu Romantics redefine romance. Delve into the minds and emotions of these romantics as word by word, piece by piece, they tear apart preconceived notions of the romantic and put them back together into a beautiful work of art they define as nu romanticism, where the romantic is found in life, love, pain, death, the unexplained, and everything in between. Pieces of Us is a collection of short stories, poetry, and flash fiction, encompassing nu romanticism across multiple themes: Hope and New Beginnings; Supernatural, Unexplained, and Horror; Erotic; Romantic; and Nostalgia, Longing, and Heartbreak. The Nu Romantics: Redefining Romance. With Thanksgiving coming up next week, it does make you ponder what you’re thankful for. I know some days seem impossible and grueling, days we want to give up. But I do know I have a lot to be thankful for. And my “woes” almost seem petty when I really think about it. But the mind—it can be a dark place, our worst enemy, the mirror we talk to, sometimes spitting venom. So today I thought I’d stop and pause to focus on what I’m grateful for. I could write all the cliched things I should be thankful for and am, but I choose something else. And ask you to join me in sharing something, or someone, you are grateful for; sometimes, it’s even a negative person that has shown us the direction we need to take that is productive rather than debilitating, and even that is something to be thankful for. Today I am going to focus on being thankful for being a woman. Many ask: If you could be the opposite sex for one day, what would be the first thing you would do? A fun exercise, but it makes me realize I love my femininity. I enjoy the daily emotions I go through, even the negative ones. I feel. I empathize. I think women have that gift at its highest level. I think it’s our greatest treasure. I don’t live life in dull hues but dark ones and bright ones and all the hues in between. Some may think being emotional is a flaw; perhaps they are right. But e.e. cummings once wrote, “since feeling is first,” and I think he’s right. If we don’t stop and feel, why are we living? Love is the ultimate in this spectrum of emotions women are capable of feeling. The meeting of someone, the fall, the ultimate in finding true love…it’s what makes us human, it’s really why we hope and dream. It’s why we breathe. Even heartache has its place as we come down from that high. And they are all emotions I think women are graced to feel on high throttle. (And perhaps a lot of men too.) On a more superficial level, I also love my curves and clothes and shoes; I love the way adrenaline from dancing or love-making reaches my cheeks. I love my long hair and the way his fingers feel running through it. I like to touch my lips and look at them look in several different shades of lipstick And yup. As you know, I love the color pink. My life isn’t perfect. I am not perfect. So far from it. But I do think my gift of femininity allows me to feel in uniquely womanly ways. And so, however I came on this Earth to live as a woman, that is what I am grateful for. “what is stronger than the human heart which shatters over and over and still lives”
― Rupi Kaur Life is a funny thing, isn't it? When you're in love? The mixed myriad of emotions. It's exhilarating but also completely frightening. It's almost painful. How can that be? How can something so beautiful and exquisite that makes you feel things so vividly, things you have always longed to feel, also produce pangs of longing or fear or an intensity that just makes you want to run? I think I know. It's because you know, deep down you know, this too shall pass--a phrase usually used to overcome pain--oh the irony! It won't last. It's bound to end. Does that mean you shouldn't allow yourself to love? (Romantically I mean.) Somedays, I think, yes, as I watch friends I love suffer at the hands of Love, hurt by people that should have cared more for them, their well-being, but instead cause such destruction and pain for them, I, myself, having been hurt by those I have loved or thought I loved. How about you? Has Love hurt you? How do you get past it? How do you get over a lover who was supposed to care for you but who does the opposite? People always answer Time. But I wonder if going in knowing, really intellectually knowing, it won't last is what will save you. And what will, in the end, ensure that you don't stop yourself from diving back under again and again, breath held to let go, even in the awareness of the pain you know it will inevitably cause. Am I being too pessimistic? Perhaps. And right now, I will simply close my eyes and try to live in this moment, the only moment I know exists. ColorGood morning, friends. You know when people ask you: What is your favorite color? And at first, you think it's such a silly or simple question. But is it? I don't think so, because it begs the question of why. Why has it come to be your favorite color? We wouldn't have one if it didn't speak to a part of who we are. Sometimes, it's the simplest questions that shed the most light. So I ask you: What is your favorite color? Why?
For me, I have two, but I'll focus on the one that gets the most guff. When someone asks me that question, immediately, I say, "Pink." And immediately people think: What a girl! Yes. And no. Pink reminds me of my love for dance. My youth. The innocence of being young. Tutus. Strawberry frosting on a vanilla cake (my favorite). And lipstick. I love lipstick. It also reminds me that I should take pride in my feminine traits, in being a woman. There is nothing remotely wrong with enjoying femininity. Curves. Hips. Lips. Empathy. Vulnerability. Sensuality. Patience. Intuition. But even beyond all that? Remember the kid books: Pinkalicious? The brother loved pink but hid it? That. That is why I also love pink. We need to take pink back. It's not a bad thing. And it shouldn't mean "girly." And boys who like it shouldn't be labeled as inferior. "Stop acting like a girl" pisses me off. Pink is a damn pretty color. Ever see a pink sunrise? Coral in the sand? How about cherry blossoms? Or Rose Champagne? A pink rose? Or a pearl? Exactly. And that, my friends, is my thought for the day. “The young habitually mistake lust for love, they're infested with idealism of all kinds.” ― Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin Good morning, friends. Join me for my #ThursdayThoughts. Last week, I had asked a question that, as many of you know, has now sadly disappeared. So because I lost all of your responses, I hope you will humor me again and answer: At what age did you first fall in love? And was it really love or looking back, do you understand it differently? I first fell in love (I'm not counting my crush at 8 in the hospital when I got my tonsils out ;)) when I was 13. Sigh. He was a football player; I, a cheerleader. And he was a poet, a brooding poet, who left me morsels in my locker and on my notebooks and kissed me for the first time under my favorite tree as he trailed his hand up the side of my body, giving me goosebumps I won't ever forget. And I know it was real love. We still have a relationship today. He moved. And then I took up with his best friend. But that I shall leave alone. So how about you? Share with me. And--was it real? (For the record, I first asked for a WIP I'm working on.) I love Shakespeare. That's no secret. So I won't dwell on the whys, except to say that I come back to it over and over only to find a different nuance, a deeper meaning, a place to cry, to laugh, to find the romantic, to see beautiful tragedy and feel it in my bones, and even to find the erotic. Every Sunday I tip my hat to the Bard in something I call Shakespeare Sunday. I share something on Facebook, and I use the hashtag #ShakespeareSunday on Twitter. I'm pretty sure I didn't invent the idea, but I've embraced it and have been doing for almost two years now. Please join me in celebrating a few of my favorite, and lesser known, quotes by the esteemed Bard. 1. King John: "And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse." To me this is a very important quote to remember. We must take responsibility for our actions. We mustn't blame others, and there is nothing worse than someone who doesn't say sorry. I will not be that person. I will make mistakes, but I will own them when I do. Too many people hurt each other and don't accept their part in the mess. I wish more people would think about not only the beauty in admitting faults, but seeing that forgiveness can only be achieved with honesty. 2. Two Gentlemen of Verona: "Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears. Moist it again, and frame some feeling line. That may discover such integrity." There is nothing more powerful for a writer and a reader than feeling the emotion poured into a work. My favorite works, both of my own writing and of others, is filled with wounds. It's what makes us human, it's what connects us, and it's why I got lost in reading and in writing, to feel. If I don't feel it on an emotional level, it has no impact on me. What I love about this line is its irony. Shakespeare writes with brilliant integrity. I'm surprised this quote doesn't get more attention. His words will never be dry as long as we continue to read them, an echo of his famous sonnet's last couplet in "Shall I Compare Thee..." It's every writer's dream to be immortalized. "So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,So long lives this, and this gives life to thee." 3. Much Ado About Nothing: "I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes." This makes it onto the list for its mere romanticism. It shows the very living and breathing of love. Love. What makes us feel alive. That. What is often missed is the subtle sexual allusion to the orgasm, "to die in," and the idea of la petit mort. It is worth every moment, a love that passionate, even if it kills us, the memory of it forever buried in the window of one's eyes. A love that strong and a passion that felt remains in a person's heart. We all live to find that penultimate. It makes me sigh every time I read it. 4. A Midsummer Night's Dream: "Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind." This quote says it all, even if possibly out of context. Attraction. Lust. Love. It may begin by some physical attraction, but it won't last if the minds aren't connected. This rings so true in today's world with the internet and social media. It's amazing to me that regardless of the century, the human condition remains the same. We live to love and feel. I can't tell you how many people I have connected to strongly without ever having seen them. Words. The mind. The connection to another human being goes far beyond their looks. And to truly love, I would wager that the minds connect on some "soul" level. And when it does, it makes every heartache endured to get to that point worth it every time. 5. The Merchant of Venice: "With mirth and laughter old wrinkles come." Though one of the more commonly known quotes, I would be remiss if I didn't share a nod to the Bard's birthday! But more than that, it's true, especially today. So many people worry about their appearance. The media, society, pressure to look a certain way. But without laughter, without letting yourself live, you won't. It's really that simple. Let life knock the crap out of you. And look at every wrinkle as a stroke from the varied palette that painted who you are. For true love looks with the mind, not the eyes. Haven't you heard? Celebrate each mark that has made you uniquely you. Share your favorite, timeless Shakespeare quotes and join me in saying, Happy Birthday, Will.
I love the written word. The beauty that can be found in just the right words, put together just the right way to make me feel something. And I cringe when writers of prose tell me they’re not poets. Of course they are. Poetry is prose with line breaks. And Found Poetry is a beautiful example of that. The Academy of American Poets (poets.org) describe Found Poetry as follows: “Found poems take existing texts and refashion them, reorder them, and present them as poems. The literary equivalent of a collage, found poetry is often made from newspaper articles, street signs, graffiti, speeches, letters, or even other poems... "A pure found poem consists exclusively of outside texts: the words of the poem remain as they were found, with few additions or omissions. Decisions of form, such as where to break a line, are left to the poet.” Many people don’t think it’s a legitimate medium or a “real” poem. I disagree. I’ve taken a few of my favorite writers and positioned them in such a way as to turn something already beautiful and romantic into a new work, with a different heartbeat, a different cadence, a different breath, ultimately, a different work of art. Take Virginia Wolf’s reworking here: Or Seamus Heaney: Or even this from Jean Webber: I’ve even taken bits and pieces of my own novels and older blogs and found passages that I felt captured an emotion, an image, a moment that was worth putting into the still-life of a poem, which I will share in a slide show below. I challenge you to join me and The Nu Romantics every Friday for the #FoundPoetryFriday writing prompt. Every human being who breathes life on this Earth is a poet. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. It is what makes us indeed, uniquely human as Walt Whtiman reminds us. Find The Nu Romantics on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/groups/TheNuRomantics/ Join the revolution. Enjoy some of my found poetry from my original works below. And you can find my books by visiting my main webpage or Amazon: www.amazon.com/R.B.-OBrien/e/B00TEF5PT8/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1. 2/18/2017 FIND ME OVER ON MEDIUM--THE SEXIEST INDIE ROCK SONGS for EVERY VALENTINE’S DAY PLAYLISTRead NowJust a quick note about a new forum I'm playing with over on Medium. Stop by! THE SEXIEST INDIE ROCK SONGS for EVERY VALENTINE’S DAY PLAYLIST It’s that time of year, and as an erotic romance writer, people always ask me if I listen to music while I write. The answer is an emphatic — “No.” I need to only listen to the characters in my head, my muses as I call them. I do, however, listen to music that inspires what I write. In fact, I have a novel that I’m working on in the New Adult category that was entirely inspired by Taylor Swift’s 1989 album. What better place to get inspiration for angsty, college-aged people falling in and out of love than Taylor Swift, right? But really, when it comes to songs that inspire my writing, it almost always comes from Indie Rock. And with Valentine’s Day here yet again, I’d thought I’d share my TOP FIVE picks for the sexiest Indie Rock songs you should have on your playlist. Finish over on medium. Click link below. Would love to hear from you. CLICK HERE: medium.com/@rbobrien/the-sexiest-indie-rock-songs-for-every-valentines-day-playlist-9271ecc30887#.rayrptbx0 2/9/2017 NEW ROMANTICISM: The Difference between Erotica, Pornography, Romance, and Erotic RomanceRead NowTalk to me about romance. Talk to me about love. Talk to me about romanticizing those things. What is it that draws us to that tale of the chase and catch repeatedly? The debate swirls and continues, and as a writer of romance…no, as a lover of romance, I come back to the same question: What is romance? And I’m ready to ditch my answer. I know. I know. A hundred times we’ve discussed this. Romance and romantic are different. Death, itself, can be romantic. Nature and a destructive snowstorm can be romantic. Lovers in love but giving that up can also be romantic. There is something aesthetically romantic in beauty itself. And beauty can even be pain. Therefore, pain is romantic, especially when the sufferer does so for love. But the genre of Romance has confines. Definitions. The trope of the Happily Ever After or Happy for Now is a MUST-HAVE. You try to publish. You'll see. In big, NEON letters, they state: Must have a happy ending. There are further restrictions as well. Throw the word “erotic” into it and a myriad of new problems arise. Suddenly the negative connotations abound. It’s pornography. It’s worthless. It’s “sex sans relationship.” Certainly, that kind of erotica is prevalent and alive. And if that is what a reader or watcher wants, that is their right, their prerogative. But that label, dear friends, is not one for me. None of these definitions or meanings are true necessarily, but it the broad brush-stroked way it has become. I’m beginning to want to distance myself more and more from that connotation of erotic or erotica as the equivalent to sex and titillation only, that equation that erotica is pornography. It isn't. Not always. And I want to be titillated but always within the framework of a story. Whatever word is opposite "sans"-- I want that. In fact, sex for mere titillation just bores me to fucking tears. Leon F. Seltzer writes in his article, “What Distinguishes Erotica from Pornography": “If the erotic celebrates sexuality, placing it on a plateau above any essentially masturbatory act of copulation, then it can be seen as diverging markedly from the pornographic. Pornography proposes a temporary "fix" for our sexual frustrations; eroticism offers us something more elusive--an opportunity to experience sensuous delight of a higher order…. "What in general separates the erotic from the pornographic is an attitude toward sex and human sexuality that can be inferred from looking (dare I use the word, "objectively"?) at the finished product. If the subjects are portrayed in a manner that focuses on their inner and outer radiance, their fleshy vitality, and the work itself seems to manifest a passionate and powerful affirmation of life and the pleasures of this world, then I think we're talking erotic. If, however, the subjects seem reduced to so many body parts, if any beauty appears subordinate to the overriding purpose of arousal, if the sex depicted seems depersonalized, controlling, non-mutual, and devoid of fun or play (but rather seems about "getting down to business" and "getting off")--and if the sex acts pictured contain not a hint of human caring or emotional connectedness to them--that, to me, would definitely secure the work's place in the realm of pornography.” So I labeled myself an Erotic Romance Writer. But what I write is neither of those things as defined individually or lumped together. Yes. I find beauty in the romantic but not ROMANCE as it’s been labeled. I almost label that trite. And yes. Erotic. But not for the sex it implies that is for mere titillation. To me the erotic is the relationship that organically manifests itself between people finding and exploring love. It is the universality of accepting the darkness that makes up human nature, the darkness I find so romantic within that dance, the inevitable opening up that lets in the light of sensuality between two human beings becoming one together without the confines of preconceived morality. In short, an exploration of all the facets of both the subconscious and conscious of light and dark. “Emotional connectedness.” Yes, Dr. Seltzer. That. I’m here to say that it’s time we start a new genre. I’m dead serious. I just don’t know how or where to start or how to make it a reality. I want a new category or genre, a new way to describe what I, and many others, write. All the great waves of writing get dubbed: Romanticism; realism; post-modernism...hey come from revolution. It’s time we start our own revolution, our rebuttal to Romance, to distinguish ourselves, to stand up and say NO. That is what post-modernism did. No answers. No neat bows. No rules. And I want us to coin it, embrace it, and live and write it through our work. Just because something has romance in it, doesn’t make it a Romance; likewise, just because the erotic presents itself, doesn’t make it Porn. How did the great revolutions of writing begin? Let’s talk romanticism. Romanticism in the 18th century was a revolt against the Age of Reason, a rebuttal against scientific rationalization of nature; and Realism was then a rebuttal to that and so it goes. That Romance has come to mean a set trope with a must-have HEA/HFN ending is just absurd. Here’s an earlier post I wrote. This is not a new dilemma for me. http://rbobrien.weebly.com/blog-posts/just-how-the-fk-do-i-categorize-my-writing. Here’s where I'm trying to go with this. The Norton Anthology states: "The American Scholar A.O. Lovejoy once observed that the word 'romantic' has come to mean so many things that, by itself, it means nothing at all...The variety of its actual and possible meanings and connotations reflect the complexity and multiplicity of European romanticism. In The Decline and Fall of the Romantic Ideal (1948) F.L. Lucas counted 11,396 definitions of 'romanticism'. In Classic, Romantic and Modern (1961) Barzun cites examples of synonymous usage for romantic which show that it is perhaps the most remarkable example of a term which can mean many things according to personal and individual needs."And I agree. So why so narrow? How did writing Romance, in particular, get so marginalized into a neat package of consumerism? Romantic. That’s what I write. I take you back to the beginning of this long article. One can find the romantic everywhere. In nature. In love. Yes. Even in lust and death. Sometimes happy endings are about the most unromantic thing there is. And sometimes, it’s exactly what makes it beautiful and that beauty IS romantic. So I ask you. Let’s stop this madness. Let’s stand up and start a revolution. We are the New Romantics (Sorry, Taylor Swift. I thought of it first. Give it back.) Let’s coin it. Own it. And make HERSTORY. I invite you to come read my story. I am a New Romantic. Well, it’s that time of year, where happiness and glee meet sadness and longing. It’s the second year without my mom but I don’t quite remember last year and so this year, I’m cognizant and feeling and breathing in and out every moment. It’s calm. Yup. Without rehashing it all, put simply: It’s calm without my mom. My mom was the serious one. The boss. The rule maker. My dad was the goofy one. The artist. The rule breaker. He died too young. And I miss him. A lot. Not every day. I’d be lying. Life is too hectic and crazy for that. But he seeps into my spirit often, especially this time of year. One thing we all did as a family, and my brother and I have tried to continue, is that on Christmas Eve Eve—tonight—we watch It’s a Wonderful Life. I’ve written about this before. Somewhere. Not here. Egg nog, spiked of course when we got older, the night my mom let her hair down. The night we giggled. The night we cried. And the night we just had nowhere to go but be together in the warmth of family. I never didn’t want to do this. Not as a teenager. Not when I went away to college. And not now. It’s still one of my favorite movies. You see, and of course I couldn’t have known that then, the movie reminds me of my dad. In so many ways. My dad was George Bailey. He was a thriving businessman who lost almost all of it by the end—and that was because he had such a kind heart. Trust me. I’m living proof of that. He started his business with just himself. He had a dream. Soon, he had a few employees. By the end, he had over 70 employees working for him. He truly lived the American dream, even if things fell apart at the end. And they fell apart because of others’ greed. Disloyalty. Dishonesty. And it never stopped him from being kind. I know he hurt. But he didn’t show it. And he certainly didn’t retaliate. And his friends were still aplenty. He truly was the richest man in town. I went to a private college. And even when we were financially struggling, my dad refused to take one dime he had saved for me to go and come out from an extremely expensive college with a 500-dollar-only debt. He gave me that gift. But the gift he really gave me was love and kindness and the gift of laughter. Tonight, as I watch It’s a Wonderful Life, I watch it full-well knowing that, though I am not religious, he long ago got his wings and my mother is now right there beside him. 12/11/2016 Don't Tell Me What I or My Writing Is or Isn't...This Erotic Writer Has Had EnoughRead NowI wrote another blog today about feminism and the submissive and BDSM and the current state of my country with the biggest misogynist alive about to rule the free world. I wrote about how you can be both submissive in the bedroom but not out in the real world, in our careers, for instance. I’m sick and tired of people saying that BDSM is abuse or that it’s misogynistic. It’s not. Not done right. Not done well. Not with consenting adults. Don’t tell me my writing is misogynistic or anti-feminist just because I or my heroines like to be controlled in the bedroom and find great satisfaction and freedom with it. That is the most anti-feminist statement I have ever heard. Feminism is all about letting women be who THEY want to be. Not how YOU want them to be. So just cut that shit right out. I am both a feminist AND a submissive in my sexual fantasies and reality. You are the one who is anti-feminist who tells me I can’t be. Further, let fiction be fucking fiction already. Instead, I woke and discovered there was something else on my mind too. Something less serious. Something that made me laugh. While reading a small excerpt, I came across a passage filled with purple prose. What is purple prose? Well, it’s something I see over and over again in my genre of writing, and it makes me laugh my ass off so hard that it defeats the whole purpose of erotic writing. It’s anti-eroticism. Talk about a mood breaker. In basic terms, purple prose is defined this way in the urban dictionary. I rather liked its example: "a term used to describe literature where the writing is unnecessarily flowery. It means that the writer described the situation (or wrote the entire book, passage, etc.) using words that are too extravagant for the type of text, or any text at all. Basically, over-describing something. With stupid words. normal writing: she lay on her bed dreaming. purple prose: she lay upon her silken sheets in her ornately embellished robes of satin, her chest ascending and descending easily with every passing second, deep inside the caverns of her subconscious mind." An article that does a better job, can be found here: http://thewritepractice.com/purple-prose/ We all have different works we are drawn to. Authors’ styles. You may find my writing “boorish” or simplistic. But one thing you can’t say about it is that it’s dotted with absurd purple prose. To me, that is the biggest sin created in modern-day erotic writing. And because I am a feminist too, I don’t need to listen to misogynistic men who don’t know the difference. This time of year has gotten tougher over the years for me. November is my dad’s birthday, and last year was particularly hard, as it was the first year without my mom for Thanksgiving; even if we fought every step of the way, it was still our day, meat stuffing battle having only been finally won one year before her death. I should have let her have her damn meat stuffing. The last few years before it were hard too. In a wheelchair, struggling to breathe, strapped to an oxygen tank, my mom often felt like a burden in my chaotic and busy life. It doesn’t feel good to say that. But it is the truth. I loved her the best I could. And I miss her. Right now, right this very minute, I think about how fleeting moments are. Truly fleeting. Something so important in one moment vanishes the next. It is only over time that we realize which moments and people will really matter. I reflect on this very time last year. I hadn’t yet published Thorne, but was fully immersed. I met new friends, new writers and mentors, supporters and confidantes. And I had the opportunity to take a chance. A chance to meet someone. A café. A rendezvous. A little restaurant in Boston. One night. A very different Thanksgiving. A way to get my mind off tradition. Get away, perhaps, from what I always do, to get away, even, from the person I have always been. Why not, I asked myself. Why the hell not? Peccavi. And the answer is simple. I rarely take chances or risks. I knew it then, and I certainly know it now--he would only break my heart. And here’s the rub. My heart got broken anyway…as I somehow always knew it would. I was playing with fire. I got scorched. Over the summer, I finally took a chance and took a trip, alone, to a different country. A fear realized and faced. A risk. A chance. But it was a safe risk, one where my heart wouldn’t be broken, one that didn’t require putting my heart on the line. My heart was tucked away safely. So I ask, is it ever worth it to take a risk involving one’s heart, where the cards are completely stacked so strongly against you, even the strongest wind couldn’t remove them? I still don’t know. Hearts will be broken. Do I regret that I never took that chance last Thanksgiving? Absolutely not. That is a moment that has proven not to have mattered. And I’m grateful that I am the person I am. Our sixth sense is profound. And I think mine is 6 cubed. Still, I romanticize of what could have been…if even only for one night. I’m a romantic that way. But of course, that’s no secret, now is it? 10/30/2016 Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?” ― Pablo Neruda, The Book of QuestionRead NowI look out my window a lot. It’s just one of those things that keeps me grounded in this weird, one-with-nature kind of way. I hate curtains. They only gather dust. And I hate alarms even more. I enjoy the natural light to whisper across my face in the morning with gentle fingers, not some man-made sound that jars me into life with a harsh slap. It is the quiet moments of the morning that I savor most, in bed, looking out my window. It’s when I write my best work. Yesterday morning, I awoke to a brilliant rainbow. At first, I marveled at the sky’s pink hues, and I thought how soothing it was. I haven’t had that feeling in a long time, that feeling of being at peace with myself or my life. I got out of bed to stand to pull the obligatory curtain further, the color peeking through the leaves of the oaks outside my window. Where I had been seeing grey for quite some time shone now pink. The color is hard to describe accurately. It was pink; but it bordered on a light red. It told me to come look at it. And then. There it appeared. A rainbow. I will share it with you here, but my phone didn’t do it justice. I don’t believe in god as my early catechism taught me. I think I’ve written that before. But I do believe. In something. Energy? Connection? Karma? What Star Wars describes as the Force? The Transcendental Oversoul? I don’t know. But whatever exists outside my understanding, I think it was trying to speak to me. I tried to listen. You see, rainbows were a thing with my dad and me. When he passed, I saw them all the time—yes, I was in Hawaii at the time and they were more prevalent--but whenever I see a rainbow, I can’t help but think, “Hi, Dad,” and that there is something in the universe speaking to me. Is it my dad? I doubt it. Is it his energy? I hope so. But each time I see this rare beauty, I try to ask myself what it might be trying to tell me. I read a book once that argued that there is no such thing as coincidence, only our ignorance of the universe around us and the messages it tries to feed us daily that we refuse to acknowledge. I heard from an old friend the the other day, someone I hadn’t spoken to in quite a while. It’s a terrible memory, and yet, after speaking for just a bit, I somehow got closure. I felt at peace. My heart that had hurt for such a long time, stopped hurting. And I think that rainbow told me that it was okay to finally let go, to move on, and to stop blaming myself.
I guess I owe my dad yet another thank you. Closure comes in many forms. I guess this time it took a rainbow to get me there. The rainbow clearly doesn't end on the horizon for me, but in my soul. And for right now, my soul has found a little peace. 10/9/2016 I. Am. Me. "It don't matter what my name is. I'm not famous and I don't hate it."Read NowI wanted to share another teaser with you today from the second book in my Thorne series, Rose’s Dark Secret, really my favorite in the series so far. The first I loved—as it came out of another series I had published on literotica that was quite popular--but the second, for me, really starts to unravel the complexities of the characters, their psyches, their layers. Nothing is ever what it seems, is it? True. And neither am I. Please don’t laugh at me. "I'm not famous...It don't matter what my name...and I don't hate it." But I have a confession to make. Okay. It’s not really a confession per se (but now that I have your attention), here it is: I’m kind of sort of just a little bit proud of myself. Yup. There. I said it. And I don't care how small my accomplishment is. I'm going to embrace for one moment. Only a few short months ago last February I started my journey into self-publishing. I had absolutely no idea how to do any of it. Rewind a year before that. I signed with a small epublisher to share my story of Natalie with the world, and I was even a bit more clueless then. No Twitter. No Facebook. No website. I had to start all of that myself. Slowly but surely, things grew. Add in a newsletter, a blog, a writing support group known as the WPW, and now video teasers, I truly have come a very long way. Some of it has been super rewarding. I’ve met great people and friends, have seen my audience and fans and sales grow, and have a safe outlet to explore my kinks, my fantasies, and my creativity. I look forward to creating teasers, writing posts and tweets and blogs, and working to write my next work or if I’m being honest, works. Some of it hasn’t been. I’ve met some real louses. Some liars. Some narcissists. I’ve watched people come and go out of my life who were so-called friends. Won and as quickly lost in love. I’ve been betrayed. Stomped on. Crucified. Depicted unfairly. I’ve even suspected that a few “friends” have ripped off some of my writing almost verbatim (why they would want to is a mystery). See my former blog post about lying: rbobrien.weebly.com/blog-posts/lying-cheating-deceitoh-my And a friend I recently made told me to tread carefully, to always wear a mask, to be sure to never, for one second, let that mask drop. That RB is a character. Just like the characters in my fiction. She is? I asked. Yes, he said. She is. But she isn’t. And maybe that’s where I get into trouble. Everything I feel, think, do, write, believe, share. It’s all versions of me. So what that it’s presented under the name RB? My real name is not RB. But my hopes, my dreams, my love for romance and the erotic and Shakespeare and EE Cummings and Hemingway and Plath and Nin is me. My sense of loyalty to friends and commitment to supporting them is me. My love for dance and music and family is me. My penchant to question and fear the unknown and to ask too many questions and suffer from grave insecurities is me. My sexual appetite is me. And my ability to smile and love is, indeed, me. Regardless what name I am. I. Am. Me. For better. Or for worse. And right now, the need to absorb happiness is me. I want to bask in this small, ephemeral moment--this feeling of pride. For that too is me, just as surely as I know that tomorrow the clouds may very well roll back in to steal this moment away as if it never existed at all. For I am a writer, a soul tortured by that inner, nagging voice that never sleeps. And that, too, is me. "It don't matter what my name is. I don't got one. I'm not famous.: ;) What is it that makes a woman go all gooey when she hears certain voices? Is there just something aesthetically inexplicable in certain timbres? In cadence? Is there something scientific that happens? When we think about the old adage--Beauty is in the eye of the beholder--does the same apply to voices? Does what sounds sexy to one, grate on the other? I, myself, am not sure about my own voice. I'm from Massachusetts. I have a gravelly voice that I find anything but mellifluous, the word monotone is not in my vocabulary, and I was kicked out of the radio program in college because I couldn't keep the needle in the middle of the Richter scale. Some say they find my voice sexy. I wonder about that! But studies have shown that males with deep voices are the most coveted. Erotic writer translation: Deep voices melt the panties right off of heterosexual women. Just look at one of the most sought-after narrators like Morgan Freeman, who admits: "The lower your voice is, the better you sound.” Throw in a British accent for we American women and all bets are off. Suddenly, even the reading of a grocery list can make one weak in the knees. Eyes roll into the back of our heads, our legs cross and uncross trying to become comfortable against the little pulse that suddenly starts to beat in that one place, our faces flush with a heat that consumes us, and coherent, intelligent chit-chat? Wait? What were we talking about? Exactly. Like any of our senses, the more we engage each one, the more aroused we become, women especially. We are sensory people. Give me a British accent, a spicy, masculine scent, the right touch in all the right places, a taste of sweet torture on my lips, and thoughtful, mysterious eyes, and I'm a goner. To illustrate the point, I recently had a small teaser read of Thorne: Rose's Dark Contract. I dare you to stay still while listening to it. And you just wait! He has done a full 10 minute scene of my next book, Thorne: Rose's Dark Awakening. My advice? Do not, I repeat, DO NOT listen to it on the way to work. You just may turn around and call out sick. ;) What a journey! First, I want to thank those of you who downloaded Thorne or who have already bought it. Further, A BIG THANK YOU to those who take the time to write reviews. Reviews are everything to us, critiques and all! But more than that. I discovered something through this process. Something quite profound really. It's a struggle as an author to get noticed, to get read, and to earn reviews. Some days I just want to throw in the towel. It's hard work to keep up with writing, social media, support of other authors, and a myriad of other things, while maintaining a full-time job and a real life outside of the virtual reality. Some days it just doesn't seem worth the effort. When Thorne was made free and I saw hundreds of downloads a day, it made me so happy. It made me happy to know that my work would be read, that someone else might enjoy the dark romantic story I had created all those months ago, that I would get to share a part of my soul with people. What I've realized this week is that my happiness from writing isn't about money. It isn't about "making it." I thought it was. I refused to give away my work, to make it free, for my hard work not to be appreciated as an artist, as a job, as my livelihood, to not be taken seriously as a writer, even if erotica my genre. My happiness comes from being read. Plain and simple. Sharing my writing. Getting feedback. Knowing that my work resonates with some of you. That we have all walked dark paths. Found love. Lost it. And feel alive each and every day in our romantic endeavors. That we connect emotionally as human beings. If my writing has touched you (no pun intended--okay, maybe a little), then THAT, that is what brings a smile to my face, that is what makes my eyes sparkle with success, that warms me inside in a way I didn't know possible. Sure. I'd love to make more money at this, more than the pocket-change, rainy-day fund money I've been making. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want as many people buying my work as I've had when I give it away. Of course I do. But the truth of the matter is: I love writing. I love exorcising my demons this way. I love learning about who I really am. What drives me. I love being creative. So I will not stop writing...and I have all of you to thank for that. I humbly thank you. Looks like you're stuck with me...at least for the time being. xo I made my first newsletter yesterday, something so small that took me so much time. I’m on such a learning curve when it comes to this stuff. But I did it, and I am quite proud of myself for getting it done. It’s nothing special. I don’t have but a little more than 100 people to send it to, but it’s another part of me and who I am that I share with the loyal friends and fans that I do have. If you'd still like to sign up, simply go to my home page here. It's a very quick sign up. rbobrien.weebly.com/ Some days, it’s just really easy to throw in the towel. To give up. To say—why am I doing all this? Why spend so much time writing and publishing? Sales fluctuate up and down. People rarely review. I’m not sure what works and what doesn’t regarding promotion and sales. The answer is simple, and I’ve said this before. I write because I am a writer. I write what is a secret part of me. I write what I can’t share in my real life. I write because I think I would implode if I didn’t. Yes. I write fiction for the most part. But with each tale I spin, there is a part of my real essence, a dark part of who I really am that manifests itself within the ink. It’s a safe place to express dark desires, kinks, and fantasies. It’s the haunted house you don’t really want to stay in but explore. It’s the movie you pray isn’t real and wish it were in the same breath, the living of it from a safe confine. With each story, I learn more about myself. And some of my stories have been censored, by me, by a publisher, by an innate fear of judgement. I wish I’d stop that. But I guess, I’m only willing to go so far, reveal just so much. I guess I’m not fully ready to admit who I really am…but I’m not ready to give up and stop the journey. So for now, I call myself a writer, because quite frankly, I have no choice. I am who I am, just different versions of myself. After months of hoping and waiting for my first series to go to print, The Natalie Edge Series, I finally received the galley print to review. I am ecstatic. All three books will be in one large, printed compilation…so for all those reading on the beach, now is your chance! Imagine that? Him? Being caught with my book in his hands? Oh the thought makes me squish inside! (Damn it! That should say Natalie's Edge. Maybe next year!) What you may not know is that Natalie came from scribbles in my diary. An old-fashioned, pen and paper, no one better get their hands on this diary. What do I mean by that? Well—I felt a deep void inside of me. I knew there was something missing in me, even if outwardly I seemed to have it all. And so, I tried to get back to self-discovery by writing. I had always kept a journal/diary, since about age 13—quite religiously. The problem? I wrote for myself. I didn’t ever want it to see the light of day. Each week, I would destroy what I wrote. And I mean that quite literally. Destroyed it just in case my parents found it. And when I began teaching, I wrote with my students daily in class and destroyed that as well. We all did. And it was invigorating. I remember students looking at me with a crazed look in their eyes—“Is she fucking for real? All this work we’ve done this semester and she wants us to destroy it if we choose? She’s nuts.” Yup. I am. That first time my students starting tearing apart their journals with glee, it was a giddy, cult-like experience. It caught on. There was this nervous energy, not said, but shown in our actions. And after it was done, they realized. She means it. She wants us to pour our souls onto this very paper. She means it. Writing is cathartic. She means it. Write. For. No one. But. Yourself. And they were right. I meant it. Authentic writing can only come from truth. From true writing without censorship. Publishing is another ballgame. (Funny I make a sport analogy when I hate sports.) But I do censor myself often when I write for publication. I am actually thinking of a new pen name, one without censorship, one without social media attached, one where I can just write freely without any worries about sales or who likes it and who doesn’t. I may have already started. ;) So for those of you who consistently ask about my inspiration, what is real/what isn't (and I welcome the questions even though I am extremely private for myriad reasons), I will answer the most common ones here for you about Natalie that I get. It's about time for you to see a little of my diary...
Okay. Phew. THAT was cleansing—as if I just got out of the confessional box itself! If you want to know more, ask! I may or may not answer. You’ll have to get your hands on my diary. But sadly, that, my friends, is buried deep into the confines of an endless landfill, somewhere in Massachusetts. AMAZON LINK TO NATALIE'S EDGE. ALSO SOLD AT EXTASY, BARNES & NOBLE, KOBO, and SMASHWORDS.
www.amazon.com/Temptation-Natalies-Edge-Book-1-ebook/dp/B00TE9XJSI/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8 Last week, I "sat down" with Lilah E. Noir to answer some pretty intense questions regarding my sequel in the Thorne series, Thorne: Rose's Dark Secret. And I found myself realizing that even if my stories or novels are fiction, there is always truth about myself in them. Writing is always a discovery with me, a discovery of self, a discovery of my needs, and a discovery of why I continue to write, even when success is daunting and fleeting. Today I thought I'd share a couple highlights of the interview. If you'd like to read the interview in its entirety, I invite to visit Ms. Noir's gorgeous website here: lilahenoir.wordpress.com/2016/07/14/author-spotlight-r-b-obrien/ Lilah, herself, is not only a beautiful writer, but she is a graphic artist. This cover, as well as the first Thorne cover, is an example of her talented artwork. Lilah: Ms. O’Brien is back with more exquisite pain, angst and pleasure for her two leading characters, William and Rose. Hello, R.B., and thank you for sparing some of your busy time. What was it like to go back to the dark world of Thorne for the sequel? R.B.: It was great but intense to try to go back into a character’s mind, a mind that is filled with self-loathing and a mind that is male. It is fun to try to psychoanalyze why a character acts and feels the way he/she does, and doing it as a different gender lends itself to many challenges. My desire to delve into the male psyche comes from many years of being drawn to men that seem to have a darker side. But there is also light in them, and it is that duality and intensity that makes me feel alive. Thorne is very much that man as is my first male protagonist, Michael, from the Natalie’s Edge series. Each man, while plagued with a dark past and demons, has this glorious light within them, fighting noble causes. I picture them as true anti-heroes, like the likes of Batman, the Dark Knight. Lilah: Some defined Thorne’s first installment and your leading male as “too dark” and to others it wasn’t “dark enough”. What is your position on the level of “darkness” in contemporary romance and erotica? R.B.: I enjoy darker. I like darker in the sense of emotional turmoil. Everything I write is based off of emotional tug of war, the mental psychology of sex and sexual tension. But I don’t enjoy complete darkness or anything that crosses lines for me personally. I don’t write about harsh punishments or intense physical BDSM. It’s not my thing. At. All. If it does not titillate me, and I want my erotica to not only titillate my readers but to titillate me, why would I do it? I am much more interested in psychological and mental and emotional punishments. I could go on for hours on this topic. But in a nutshell: Why write something that doesn’t personally turn me on? I like flawed characters. I like depth of character. I like to see redemption and dynamic characterization when all is said and done. And there will always be an element of consent for me. Always. And romance. Always. Love. Always. And some semblance of happy ending. Always. So those who said not dark enough? They want me to take them places that I do not want to and will not go. For those who said that the male protagonist is too dark or that Thorne (or even Michael from Natalie’s Edge) is borderline abusive, what can I say to that? They are flawed, round characters, based off real-life relationships and people. They are not made to be fantastical, perfect men or stock characters. How boring to me! And for some, including myself, these types of stories are turn-ons. Watching a strong-willed, alpha man come to terms with his past and his flaws as he discovers love is the story I love to tell but also the story I love to read. And for those who do not understand the psyche of a slight emotional masochist, there is really not much I can do about that. But for those who do understand it, who can identify with that need, that desire, that ache? They get it. That is my audience. And the too dark/not dark enough becomes just right. I got into an argument with someone about one of my stories once and how its depiction is “abuse” and not “BDSM-worthy” as a category. I can’t stand when someone tells me what should or should not turn me on sexually. If both parties understand it, consent exists, and that is all that matters. Truth be told? I was struggling to find erotic works that spoke to my personal fetishes. So guess what? I decided to write them myself. I wrote a blog post here about just how to categorize my books!http://rbobrien.weebly.com/blog-posts/just-how-the-fk-do-i-categorize-my-writing. To see my entire interview, visit the link to Lilah's site lilahenoir.wordpress.com/2016/07/14/author-spotlight-r-b-obrien. In the meantime, enjoy my books, all 99 cents for a limited time. I'd love to hear your opinion. Are my characters too dark? Not dark enough? As for me, I'll keep writing and discovering, one page at a time.
It’s what I like to call Shakespeare Sunday today, where I often share something Shakespearean with my friends. Today I dedicate my blog to Elie Wiesel who has just passed. As I sat on the beach yesterday, trying to breathe again and find balance in my life among the hectic nonsense of life, especially the life in the virtual spectrum with drama and nonsense and worries about book sales and loyalty and lies and truth and a myriad of other things, I sulked. Was I feeling sorry for myself? Maybe. I don’t know. But there are just days I feel fed up. Tired. Tired of the nonsense. Tired of the competition. Tired of the jealousy. Tired of misunderstandings. Tired of expectation. I had my whole Shakespeare post ready about Expectations for today—you know the quote I’m sure. "Expectation is…" And then, I see the Globe, my Sunday ritual, a dying ritual I realize, to pick up an old-fashioned newspaper, ink barely dry, staining my fingers in that beautiful hue of grey that is messy and decadent at the same time. I lick to get to the Food section and the Arts and Entertainment section, my greedy little fingers wrapped around both the awkward pages of the dying art and my coffee mug as I curl into what I deem relaxation. And there it is. Elie Wiesel, one of the greatest writers, thinkers, narrators, and most importantly, historians of our time. And my heart saddens. I mean sick with heavy sadness. I realize that there is about to be no one left who will be a primary source to this horrific tale in history. Amidst the political climate in our country and abroad right now, I feel the lump in my throat as I stifle down the sad truth that I see similarities in scapegoating and fear going on around me in global scales but also in my world, an almost microcosm of the bigger picture. Pointing fingers. Blame. Half-truths. As a teenager, I was profoundly affected by Wiesel’s narrative, Night, as I’m sure many of you were and are. When running my first 5K, it was his tale that stuck in my mind. Silly, I know. Big deal. 5K. Ha. But for me it was a huge feat. I said in my mind thinking of Wiesel’s story of unbelievable odds—40 miles, no food, freezing weather, barefoot in the snow—surely, I can run a mere 5K. It’s about determination. How bad do I want it? This is fucking nothing! I remember the music of the violin the most, that little boy playing his heart out only for Elie to awaken the next morning to death and the crushed violin, destroyed, symbolic. It is still one of the most powerful scenes I ever read that speaks so much without ever speaking it at all but instead, showing it. And yet—this quote—by Wiesel shows us that adversity can be overcome, that you can survive, that you can still go on to find some semblance of happiness, that you can, indeed, live a life that is gratifying. So yes. I realize everything is relative. But damn it. I have it pretty darn good. Life will never be perfect. Elie Wiesel survived the Holocaust. He went on to do great things. I was fortunate enough to visit one of his lectures here in Boston. We all face levels of adversity. And as Shakespeare wrote: Sweet are the uses of adversity/Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,/Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.” If someone like Wiesel can overcome and use his adversity as a “jewel in his head,” I think every single one of us can. We are “mere mortals”—it’s true, but words, Shakespeare’s, Wiesel’s—they are immortal. And because of those words, we will never forget.
I don’t believe in a god, not in the traditional sense anyway. I guess that’s what being raised Catholic has done to me. But I do believe in energy. I do believe in right and wrong. I do believe in kindness and truth. And not everyone else is like that. I’m learning that. I’m learning that there are some really ugly people in this world and I’m not talking about their outsides. I’m talking about their souls, their essence, the people they are. I am not perfect. Far from it. And I have accomplished a fair share of mistakes in my short time on this Earth already. But I have never gone out of my way to hurt a person deliberately. I know that there are two sides to every story. I’m not stupid. I’m a good listener. I care about the feelings of others—sometimes too much and that is what gets me into trouble, caring for the wrong people sometimes. But I don’t have a malicious bone in my body. Some people may call that weak. True or not, it is simply the person I am. And if others choose to view me as weaker, there is really not much I can do about that. I’m fortunate, though, that for every rotten person who chooses to jump to conclusions or who chooses not to ask questions and listen to the answers, there are a dozen who do—people who care. People who listen. People who can see the truth in the cracks of others’ lies. People I am fortunate enough to call friends. Life is never going to be easy, and the life of a writer comes with all kinds of its unique issues. The more public I become, the more I open myself up to slander and lies. Some days it's very easy to give up. But it also opens those doors to friendships and a wealth of goodness too, people who are wonderful and forgiving and kind and supportive. People who are not motivated by jealousy or greed, but by love. The Beatles once said: “All You Need is Love.” I believe in that simple phrase. The simpler, the better. Perhaps “you may say I’m dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” Being kind and forgiving and supportive and sensitive isn’t weak at all. In fact, it takes courage and strength not to succumb to hatred. It’s much easier to choose that path. Instead, I’ll choose love and that is my strength. |
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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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