My Glamorous Writer's Life

I know that the mental picture everyone has of a writer's life is the basic wood paneled library in a hunting lodge in the woods. Erotica writers get more of the Cleopatra fantasy. Cleopatra of Liz Taylor ilk though, not the grittier ROME version. Muscled, nearly naked men fanning me with ostrich plumes, lunches of oysters and caviar, scantily clad women performing lusty tribal dances for my amusement, a bed draped like a sheikh's tent... The hard part is finding enough river water in LA to float my royal barge.

It's all true. Absolutely. No, really....

Okay, maybe not.

Writing erotica is no different from other writing - despite common perception that it takes no talent. Anyone who thinks erotica isn't quality isn't reading Mike Kimera, M. Christian, Alison Taylor, Lizabet Sarai, Gwen Masters, Kate Dominic, Ian Phillips, or any of the other incredible writers working in this genre today. Some of the best short stories being written now are erotic.

(Putting together a list is always painful. I could have twenty more names. Not all of Ian Phillips stories are erotic, and if I include him, how can I possibly leave off Greg Wharton, who wrote one of my all time favorite short stories? This isn't a definitive list by any means. The talent pool in erotica is deep.)

One aspect of erotica may be a little different from other writing though. The fan email. I haven't polled mystery, horror, and romance writers, so I don't know if they get this type of thing, but I do get some odd fan letters.

Most people who write to me are nice and generous with praise. I'm touched when they take time to tell me that they liked my work. Then there are the two who stand out in my mind....

The message I got two weeks ago was basically "I really liked your story Kells. Kobi was a great character, and I liked the scene up on the bridge with the two vampires. It was hot."

So far, so good.

Except that embedded was a picture of his (I presume) dick. I think I jumped back two feet from the computer when I scrolled down to that. Not that I needed the extra space to get it in focus. Whoa! I called the SO over.

ME: "What the fuck?"

SO: *laughing hysterically* "Maybe it's like a thumbs up."

ME: "But the note is so rational. No 'I'd like to meet you,' 'What are you wearing,' 'I'm stalking you.' Just a nice, normal note, and then this."

SO: "Is this the same guy who sent you the dick picture a year ago? At least the other one gave you the full frontal so that you knew what he looked like."

ME: "I didn't keep that, so no chance for comparisons." *peering closer at the screen* "Hey, he's not completely hard! What the hell? Is that some kind of editorial comment? *typing furiously*

SO: *stops laughing and looks concerned* "Um, what are you doing?"

ME: "Demanding to know why I didn't rate a full stiffy. He said he liked the story, but obviously, it didn't quite do it for him. I want to know why. I mean, if you're going to send someone a picture of your dick, have the courtesy to show it at it's best."

Everyone is a damn critic.

Halloween

I'll be on the Torquere Press author's chat this evening while I hand out glow bracelets to the trick-or-treaters stopping by my house. It's usually a witty group on the Torquere chats, so join us.

Last night, the SO and I went to a party. We showed up "late and unprepared" (which meant only one shoe on, pants down, shirts mis-buttoned, etc.) We were FEMA. (rimshot) Thank you- thank you very much.

The real horror of my day was preparing my MS for submission. Why oh why oh why can't there be one standard for anything in the publishing world? But no.

Take, for instance, the request by a certain publisher for a "chapter-by-chapter" outline. I already hate synopsis with a burning passion, but a chapter by chapter outline? I'd rather have salt in a papercut.

So I grab out my handy-dandy little book with samples of every submission, query, or manuscript format a screenwriter or freelance writer could ever want. It calls for a one page synopsis of each chapter. Can you hear me groaning from there?

Never content with one source of information, I went online. Surfing only muddied the waters. Now, I'll admit that I was searching for the answer I wanted to hear, but what I found were samples ranging from a couple words about the chapter to several paragraphs, to pages(!) about the chapter.

Damn. Now I'll have to ask.

I hate asking. Not because of pride, but because my sneaking suspicion that it immediately flags me as a high maintenance writer. I don't need to start off with a bad impression. *sigh* What's a girl to do? Ask anyway, and hope the diva cooties don't stick to my MS.

The Death of One Thousand Giggles

The SO can't say No to a female. Normally, this works for me, as I'm evil enough to take constant advantage of him. Unfortunately, I'm not the only person who knows what a pussy, er, soft-hearted guy he is.

I walked into our place Friday night to find it infested with 8,9, and 10 year old girls.

ME: *Picture the Baroness Bomburst of Vulgaria from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Hands fluttering as I reel from side to side as if I'll go into a dead faint from sheer horror.* "Children! There are children here!"

SO: * Grinning sheepishly* "Oh yeah, my sister asked if we could watch the girls overnight."

ME: "Correct me if I'm wrong, but your sister has only two kids. There appear to be seven girls here."

SO: "Yeah, it's a sleepover."

ME: *Gaze sliding to smugly simpering manipulative niecelets* "Oh joy. Oh rapture. How long have WE known about this?"

SO: *turns away, mumbling something under his breath.* "I ordered pizza!"

GIRLS: *commence shrieking and jumping*

ME: *shudder* "If you need me, I'll be in the bottom of a martini."

SO: "What's the matter? Chicken?" *lifting one eyebrow*

Oh, he was so going down for that.

Let me just state for the record that I make a lousy girl. The day they taught girls to care about things like make-up, hair, clothes, shrieking, pink, fluffy things, stuffed animals, cuteness, babies, etc., I was apparently still out on the playground with the boys. Most women are a separate tribe from me that speaks a different language and practices strange customs. (One day I will write about the special hell that is the Baby Shower/Wedding Shower ritual. Three words: toilet paper brides. Do a Google image search if you don't believe me. There are stranger things, Horatio...)


The SO went on an indulgency binge in preparation for the sleepover. He takes his role as favorite Uncle very seriously. The girls had craft kits to make necklaces, little make-up kits full of sparkly stuff for them to spill on the furniture, hot chocolate with whipped cream (two sips, then set aside), chips (ground into the carpet), dip (also into the carpet), sodas (opened, left to get warm and flat, never actually drank), ring pops, several suitably girly movies (Princess Diaries, UpTown Girls....), a karaoke machine loaded with Britney Spears songs (for the love of humanity - make it STOP!), popcorn, cake, and ice cream.

We were lucky only one puked.

Those tiny little ballerina wanna-bes shoved our furniture to the far walls and spread out over the floor with their sleeping bags like pilgrims on their way to Barbie-Mecca. Everything was lurid pink and purple. Mercifully, they didn't get into the mean girl mode and make anyone cry. (Even the puker was remarkable sanguine about the experience. After cleaning up, she went right back to the party. I foresee Spring Break greatness in her future.) They were, however, bouncing off the walls. About 1 AM, the SO and I decided to lead by example and crawl into bed.

I have no idea why they call them sleepovers. There was no sleeping involved. The girls had sleeping bags. They had pajamas. They had stuffed animals. But at no time did any of them sleep.

Nor did we.

Over the next four hours, we took turns pleading, cajoling, threatening, and crying for mercy. The girls were on an estrogen high though, and they weren't going to come down. More than anything, it was the shrieking giggles that plucked every nerve up my spine. There was no escaping it. That sound could slice through solid lead like it was butter.

The cruel, long, slow, painful death of a thousand giggles.

About 5AM, another round of riotous laughter burst from the TV room.

SO: *shoving my shoulder* "Your turn."

ME: *shoving back* "Your effing blood relatives."

SO: "I'm too cute to go to prison."

ME: * reluctantly agreeing.* "You so owe me."

SO: *rolls over and puts pillow over head.*

I dragged out to the TV room. Every step down the hall, the giggles got louder. I looked into the room. The TV was on, playing a movie that they weren't watching. They had the pizza out again and were eating the cold leftovers from dinner the night before.

SO's younger niece put her hand to her chest. And then - she belched.

Dark haired girl: "Yeah, but can you do words?" *proceeds to belch part of the alphabet*

Chorus: *giggling*

Blonde girl: "That's so Gross! You're supposed to do --." *Lifts up one buttcheek and farts.*

Older niece: "You should do that in class!"

Blonde girl: "Oh, totally!"

Chorus: *riotous laughter, giggles, forced burps, and more farts*

I tip-toed back down the hall and climbed into bed.

SO: "What was it this time?"

ME: "I think they were gossiping about movie stars."

I may not be much of a girl, but I know better than to give men a sneak peek behind the curtain. Oh sure, you can try to tell men, you can warn them, but they will insist on the feminine mystique. Sometimes, it's just better to let them have their dreams.

We survived the night. Every child was delivered back to her parents-- alive. Just before the designated pick-up time though, I let the girls spray cheap perfume in their hair, gave them full-sugared sodas to drink, and had them main-line pixie stix. By the time mini-vans pulled into the driveway, every girl was vibrating on sugar-induced highs. The puker looked a little green.

ME: *rubbing hands together* "Excellent."

That'll teach those parents to trust me with their kids ever again.

Do you ever wonder...

I read a lot of erotica. For research. Really....

Anyway, a couple stories I read recently made me wonder if:
1) the writer was a (straight) guy, despite the female pen name, and
2) if you can tell that the writer gives seriously lousy head from reading their story.

Have you ever read erotica that turned you off or made you cringe (not squwick factor stuff like scat, just bad sex)?

Since I'm such a trooper, and will do anything to improve my writing, I'm thinking about handing the SO a post-coital questionnaire. Think Count Tyrone Rugen from the Princess Bride: "What did this do to you? Tell me. And remember, this is for posterity, so... be honest. How did this make you feel?"

Useless info about me

I am now addicted to Death Cab for Cutie.

My stack of unread books now reaches up to my waist. It will topple and kill me some day, but I MUST write my novel synopsis before I'm allowed to open any of them.

To DH: the reason I asked is because I am insane enough to flirt with the idea of pitching an erotica anthology.

I may be a literary masochist after all. I know I don't care for Hemingway's style, but I'm forcing myself to slog through a collection of his short stories. Why? People think he's good. I want to improve my skills. So I read him. Ugh. Like taking bitter medicine. However, I am incredibly jealous of this sentence:
It [the Big Hearted River] stretched away, pebbly-bottomed with shallows and big boulders and a deep pool as it curved away from the foot of a bluff.

To answer StrangeDaze:

The reason why I don't post any of my stories is because -

1) rampant theft of material on the internet (Hey Google - maybe LIBRARIES said it was okay to scan their content and post it, but libraries don't own the copyrights to the books on their shelves, do they? BTW Google, can I take all your content and post it somewhere else? I asked my librarian. She shrugged and said "sure, whatever," so it must be okay.)

2) I don't want the US government to use erotica as an excuse to silence my political voice, and

3) Um, I'm trying to SELL it, dude.


That is all. Carry on.

Speculative Fiction

While I'm only published in erotica so far, I am a huge fan of science fiction and fantasy.

Some of my favorite books are Dune, Left Hand of Darkness, the Vorkosigan saga, Frankenstein, Altered Carbon (Richard Morgan's new Takeshi Kovacs novel Woken Furies is out. Yay!), Fahrenheit 451, Dracula (forgive me, Judgja) and Ubik.

Many people dismiss science fiction as genre garbage, but science fiction reflects our society in its darkest light. Caves of Steel is about racism. War of the Worlds is about imperialism. The genre dares question who we are and where we're going. To me, that has a lot more merit than beautiful words strung across the page.

I spend a lot of time commuting, so I work on writing exercises that don't involve typing. Speculative fiction - encompassing science fiction and fantasy - lends itself to "what if" games, because the entire genre answers "what if?"

Taking an idea from current news, and some of my knowledge of the past, I spent my rainy commute yesterday wondering what will happen if bird flu becomes a pandemic like it did back in 1918. Thinking back to how slow travel was in 1918, it's amazing how that virus spread around the world. With our current rate of travel and open borders, it's possible that within a week, most major cities would have a Patient Zero moving among their population.

Okay. That's the set-up.

There are a million ways to run with this idea. The Action/Adventure Scientist as Savior story, the survivalist/ rebuilding society story, evolving utopia, evolving distopia, rise of tyrants, escape from earth, evolution of humans, rise of a new sentient earth species (my favorite being the Giant Squid theory) , Ways to Serve Man type alien invasion....

But I like near-future stories. So what I was thinking is how we might quick-adapt to the threat. My first thought is that it will be refelcted in fashion. Clothes? Absolutely. How about everyone wearing gloves, for a start? We know that viruses are spread mostly by hand. But how would that change things? Showing a naked palm could become a sign of ultimate trust, or aggression. (And it would most certainly become a fetish.)

Take it further. As we go to biometric scans to protect ourselves from identity theft, that would clash with the use of gloves. Stripping off a glove to spend money or prove identity could become a very private matter. Imagine stepping into a secluded booth to pay for your groceries. Filthy lucre, anyone?

What if we decided that covering our noses and mouths was a better way to protect against infection? Would we veil ourselves? If we draped our entire bodies for protection, what would that do to gender identifiers? Would gender become irrelevant, or would people dare spread out along the spectrum of the Kinsey scale to where they were comfortable? How frustrated would a cross-dresser be? How would dating work? How would manners change? What would become taboo, and what would be erotic?

Could it be that in their misogyny, men who insist on heavily veiling their women have saved those women from infection - but left themselves open to it? What would happen to a patriarchal society if a large percent of the men died off in a short span of time? (In reality, they'd go home, infect their wives and children, and drag the whole family into the grave too, but put that aside for now.)

Space proxemics, interpersonal relations, everything could be affected by our fear of death from that virus. Or - we could blithely go along with our same lives while people dropped dead around us. Those who died could be blamed for some sort of moral or genetic weakness, and the survivors could claim that their bio-cleanliness was next to godliness.

So take it, run with it, push it to the edge of the absurd, and then push it beyond. Speculate. Then write a damn fine story and let me read it.

Enough with the Tragic Muse

or: getting back to work.

I coasted all last week on my Clean Sheets victory, but a rejection broke me out of my smug haze.

The story that got rejected had been sitting with that particular editor for 16 months. I was tempted several times to pull the submission because this editor has a poor reputation-- something I wish I'd known 16 months ago-- but I had no compelling reason to yank it other than a serious case of dislike. (For the record, even if my story had been accepted, it would be my last submission to that editor.)

No matter how I felt about the editor, a rejection always gets me blue. I give myself 24 hours to mope on my mental velvet fainting couch and then I have to get over it. Playing the Tragic Muse gets damn dull pretty quick.

The good side of that rejection is that I got a chance to dive back into a story that I wrote nearly two years ago, but armed with a better set of writing skills. Writing is a craft, and like any craft, you never stop learning how to do it better. I didn't find anything cringe-worthy, but I did cut redundant phrases and sharpen word choices.

Rewriting is the true art, I think.

I'd love to see my story in print. It is one of my favorites-- surreal and profane. I'll give the rewrite a week to ripen, re-read it to find errors, and then that story is going back in the mail to a different editor. That work ethic, more than anything else, makes me feel like a real writer.

I Won! I Won! Well, sort of...

It's an honor just to be nominated.

This time, I'm perfectly happy to be the bridesmaid instead of the bride.

I won second place in Clean Sheet's Rock Me Contest with my story Solace or Moonlight (Clair de Lune).

I'm having a good writing month, as my story Kells is on ERWA, and I was a panelist for the writer's workshop at Conjecture 4.

This isn't something that I like to talk about, because talking about donations I've made seems too much like bragging, but I want to encourage you to give a little bit too, so.... In my continuing effort to keep my porn karma in good balance, my winnings from Clean Sheets were donated to NO/AIDS Task Force in loving memory of Jim Sands, an ERWA lister who passed away a couple weeks ago. Check out NO/AIDS Task Force. It's a worthy cause, and they could sure use your help to reach a population our government wishes would simply disappear.

Scare Yourself Silly

Except that this is the real frightening stuff, folks.


Sexual Orientation Tests for Authors (hint: if you're queer, no matter what you've written, it's offensive.)

Let me add a disclaimer on this one: I never read anything on this site. Some people claim it had underage character in erotica. I am COMPLETELY against non-consensual sex, and I don't think children can give informed consent. However, my objection here isn't based on content. It is based on plea that posters not make political statements on his site. Wow. Get accused of a crime and lose your 1st Amendment rights. Scared silent by the government. That's what bothers me.

"I Was Just Following Orders" in NO excuse. (Or: FBI agents: Did you swear to uphold the Constitution? People of conscience refuse to obey orders that violate rights, even if its legal to do so under unjust laws.)

Self-Censorship is a victory for the Foes of the Bill of Rights. (Or: Where the hell is our generation's Edward R. Murrow? Someone stop the witchhunt!)


Have You Gone to Bat for Your Librarian Today? (Or: Mild mannered? Think again. Librarians are the front-line warriors on the privacy battleground.)

Government Informers? Try Aisle 5. (Or: How much balls did it take for a government agent to terrify a kid? Here's a hint Mr. Agent Man: You look like a big dick now, but that isn't because of the size of your penis.)


And just so you realize what's at risk here:

AMENDMENT I
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.


This one might come in handy too:

AMENDMENT IV
The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.


Lest We Forget.

Is it just me?

It may be my imagination, but I think that the artist who came up with this idea for an observation deck over the Grand Canyon might have previously worked in industrial design. If he added sparklies, shells, and plastic fish, I'd so be there.







Or is it just me?

You Don't Need No Stinkin' Rights

When I first read Barton's Gellman's Washington Post article about the FBI pulling field agents off real work to form a brute squad to squash Americans' 1st Amendment rights, I honestly thought it was a parody.

Who, in his right mind, thinks that Joe Redstate needs to be protected from pictures of naked titties? Certainly not Joe Redstate. He probably thinks his right to read Hustler and Playboy is protected. He probably also thinks that his right to watch CSI is as safe as his wife's right to read a Harlequin Blaze romance novel. But they aren't safe. The government has declared open season on the Bill of Rights.

Joe Redstate-- according to the Bush administration, you don't need no stinkin' rights. An FBI agent could bust down your door and burn your vintage Playboy collection in order to keep you safe from those dangerous naked women. Think it won't happen? German citizens were kept safe from subversive thoughts and art in the late 1930s by their compassionate conservative government too.

Supposedly, an FBI memo on how best to subvert the rights of Americans is to attack anything that "includes bestiality, urination, defecation, as well as sadistic and masochistic behavior."

Having to listen to Senator Santorum talk is painful to me. Should any news media that prints words he says, or shows him on TV be censored to stop me from indulging in mashochistic behavior when I force myself to listen to him? Believe me, it isn't pleasant.

I can think of a CSI episode where a man enjoyed infatilism, including enemas and diapers. (King Baby, Feb, 2005) Other memorable, hot episodes have shown Mistress Heather's establishment. (Lady Heather's Box, Slaves of Las Vegas) I had a great deal of respect for the writers of those episodes for their ability to look deeper than the smirk factor to bring the human element to their stories.

I once saw an episode of I Love Lucy where Ricky put Lucy over his knee and smacked her ass. That was the first episode I remember ever seeing, and I watched the show fanatically for about a year waiting for another episode like it. I was sadly disappointed. Are I Love Lucy episodes endangered?

Probably not, because they never start with the big companies who have lawyers and money to fight. This will be very selective enforcement. Some companies are more equal than others. ABC, GE, Hustler, Harlequin - they're safe. This whole ridiculous game looks like a Bush Administration effort to shut down competition in the porn industry, protect big porn business, and kill the little provider. Given the complete lack of ethics in the current administration, I wouldn't be surprised.

According to Gellman's article, anything that depicts "Consenting Adults," and is marketed to "Consenting Adults," is fair game. Because they know how to be sneaky about this, at first they attack the small, obscure fetishes. Who is going to stand up for yiffing Furries? (Fur and Loathing, CSI, October 2003) Who is brave enough to stand in front of their community to defend the rights of enema aficionados? How about those women dressed as ponies pulling a chariot? (Hmmm, you might be thinking, I'd at least like to see a glimpse of that.) Would you be upset if every picture of two men kissing was destroyed? How about two women? How about a man and a woman? In some places, that's considered an obscenity. (Read the story about the couple arrested and fined for kissing at their wedding.) Where are you drawing the line? Don't assume that what you think is okay would pass the arbitrary test of obscenity. After all, performing oral sex on your spouse is sodomy, and was against the law in most states until recently. If Senator Santorum had his way, you could still be arrested for getting or giving a blowjob to your spouse. I don't know about you, but the idea of a bunch of white male Republicans monitoring what goes on in my bedroom seems sort of, well, unAmerican. And creepy. Mustn't forget creepy.

Eventually, your CSI TV show and your favorite girlie magazine will be targeted. Tyranny starts with silence and ends with fear. It's a slippery slope of arbitrary value judgments. Like a bully on a playground, they go after the ones that are perceived weakest first, but when no one steps in to make it stop, they get bolder and start going after YOU. Yes, I'm talking to you, Mr. Redstate. And you too, Mrs. Redstate. (I know what you're doing in the tub while reading that smutty book. No one needs to soak that long, honey.) Say bye-bye to Rome and it's depiction of actual sex slaves. Say goodbye to Deadwood and the Sopranos too.

Now I'm asking you, are you man/woman enough to stand up and demand your right to ogle naked titties? If you're man/woman enough to buy it, you should have the decency to protect it.

Here, call your congressman and tell him/her you want the FBI out of your bedroom and internet. (While you're at it, protest 2257 as a bad law. Don't know about it? Wake up and smell the censorship, Joe. I'm not going to hand you everything. Do a little research and open your eyes to what your government is trying to do to you.) Trust me, you'll feel much better in the morning. A little rebellion looks good on you.

Find your misrepresentative here:

www.senate.gov
www.house.gov

Tell them that you want FBI agents to work on something important, like real crimes. You know - Enron and other connected corporate criminals, drugs, child porn, no-bid government contracts, White House aides "buying" news, domestic and foreign terrorists, blowing the cover of CIA operatives, campaign finance law violations...

Oh wait, the Bush administration doesn't want authorities looking into those things. This is all a plot to distract law enforcement with pictures of naked women!

Well, now it all makes perfect sense.

Surviving the Cat Tyrant (a mostly true story)

Back in January, Mara the Fat Butted Cat-- his butt had jowls-- went to that big sunny window ledge in the sky. (The picture is of him sleeping in the sun, not dead. Don't get yer panties in a bunch.)

While we were devastated to come home and find Mara dead on our bed, it wasn't long before our gallows sense of humor overcame our grief. On the way to the veterinarian with the cat corpse, the SO and I remembered all those little quirks that made Mara a total pain in the ass.

Once, I tried to stop enabling Mara's cheetos addiction. Two days later I woke up to find bird parts on the bed at my feet. As soon as the cheetos supply flowed, the dead critter offerings stopped. Those events might not be related, but I'm just sayin'...

We had to pay the vet by the pound to dispose of Mara's body. You can only imagine the tasteless jokefest that inspired on the drive home. Or maybe you can't. Trust me, we're going to burn in hell, even if we were crying between the fits of giggles.

We sobered up later in the evening, but when we went to sleep, we found that our dear departed cat left us a little extra something to remember him by. In his last moments of life, he peed all over the bed. *sniffle* Mara, we'll never forget you-- mostly because the stink of your piss still lingers faintly, no matter what we do to get rid of it.

Since my cat Skitters was still alive, and finally getting a chance at the food bowl, I was in no hurry to add to more pets to the house. However, the SO decided recently it was time to take on a new kitten.

The conversation went something like this:

SO: "I've been looking into cats."

Me: "Like opening their mouths and peering down their throats?'Cause the other direction is just wrong."

SO: Giving me one of his looks. "Come here and see this website I found. Ossicats! They're spotted!"

Me: *groan* Scrolling down to the pertinent info. Price per Ossicat? Cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-cha-ching! "Wow. That's great. Spotted cats. Can we have one bred just for us?"

SO: cautiously. "Sure."

Me: "Good. Have his spots arranged in a portrait of the Virgin Mary. The furball can earn his keep. We'll open up a little shrine and let the faithful purchase genuine Hail Mary hairballs that he cacks up. We'll make a fortune. I'll order Pope bobblehead dolls for the gift shop, and a glow-in-the-dark baby Jesus butt plug!"

SO: "For the store?"

Me: "Oh, yeah, right. For the store...."

Several weeks later, I knew he was exchanging illicit e-mails with cat breeders behind my back. It wasn't just ossicats. He was into bangles too. Spotted cats on the brain. I knew I had to act quick.

The PETsMART near us doesn't sell cats or dogs, but they allow the local shelters and pet adoption groups to set up in the store. I figured that if I got a kitten, any kitten, into the SO's hands, he'd be so smitten that he'd forget about spotted cats. If that failed, I had a back-up plan designed to appeal to his better nature. (Because, unlike me, he has one.)

I drove over to the store to scope it out. The local shelter had the prime space up front.

"Looking for a pet?" the shelter guy asked.

"Yeah. A cat."

He had older ones in cages, but I could see kittens near the back of the store, offered for adoption by another group, so I tried to get away. He held on. He nodded towards the woman running the cat adoptions in the back. "Don't just go up and say that you want a cat. Hang over in the next aisle and listen for a while. I've been here the past six weekends. I have yet to see her adopt out a kitten. She's a cat nazi."

I sauntered over to the chew toys. Cat Tyrant was in the next row. She was a little taller than me, honeyed hair clipped short, khaki shorts, and a teal polo shirt. Her white Keds were suspiciously pristine.

The first person to walk up to her was a nine year-old boy. He held an orange and white stripped kitten. The kitten was purring so loud I could hear it. The boy's mother walked behind him, seemingly hesitant. His face radiated pure joy.

Cat Tyrant snatched a clipboard away from the mother. She frowned before she even looked down at the application. "So, you live off the Esplanade." (This story comes off better if you read Cat Tyrant's lines with a fake German accent.)

Mother and boy nodded. The kitten rubbed his head against the boy's chin.

"Do you rent or own your home?"

"We rent."

Cat Tyrant raised her voice so that other shoppers could hear the humiliation. "How can you possibly make a commitment to a pet when you can't even commit to real estate?" She ripped the kitten from the boy's hands. "I don't think so." She shoved the piteously meowing kitten into a small cage with five others. "Next!"

"But--."

"Next!"

The mom and boy slinked away.

No one said that there'd be a test! I was about to leave, but I saw the blue banner draped over the card table behind Cat Tyrant. Adoptions were $19.00. Hell, for a nineteen dollar cat, I'd play her stupid game.

I listened in on a few more unfortunates. That woman would sieze any excuse to turn down someone.

"I love animals. I own several," one poor deluded guy offered.

"Own?" Cat Tyrant shrieked. "Animals are not slaves!" She went off on a tirade, foaming at the corners of her lips, eyes glazed over.

I watched crazy Cat Tyrant for a couple hours. Crimes that made people unfit to adopt were: picking a cat for the color of its fur, never having a pet before, and having put an animal to sleep. Apparently, letting the cat suffer from a tumor was Cat Tyrant's idea of humane treatment.

I called the SO. "Okay," I whispered, "here's the deal. I have a line on a cat--."

"An ossicat?"

I made a face at the phone. "It's just that this poor little fella was abandoned by his mother, and this lady has been raising him, but she can't keep him. He's really cute. But never mind that. If she gives him to the pound, it's probably the gas chamber for him, no matter how incredibly cute he his, poor little fella. But don't worry about that. I'm sure that the death will be painless. He's soooo cute. But don't let that keep you up nights, just because you let an innocent, cute little kitty be gassed. We'll have a kitten bred just for you. Never mind that there are a million unwanted pets being put to death every day, and their only crime is that--."

"All right! Enough. I give. Geeze."

"Okay - here's the deal. Wear canvas shoes. No belt. No leather. If you can come in eating tofu, you get extra points. You will absolutely not mention the following things to this lady. One..." I went through the entire list of disqualifiers.

"Is that all?" he sighed. "This better be one fucking amazing cat," he said before he hung up.

I rubbed my hands together in miserly glee. "Excellent."

Shelter Guy sauntered over to watch SO work his magic on Cat Tyrant. "I've never seen anyone make it this far in their quest," Shelter Guy said in obvious awe.

"The bullshit is strong with this one," I whispered.

Shelter Guy did Yoda ears with his thumbs. "Difficult, this test is. There is no try. There is only do. Hmmm."

We peered around the stacks of hamsterchow.

The questions were getting incredibly esoteric.

"What would you do if your cat clawed the furniture?"

SO shrugged.

"Did your other cat--."

"Mara," SO sniffled a little, working it.

Oh, bravo darling, good show! But I could see that he was about at the end of his temper with Cat Tyrant. His shoulders were taut and his answers were clipped.

"Did Mara ever claw the furniture?"

"Mara was declawed." SO stroked the kitten he held as it climbed up his denim jacket.

My heart sank.

"Declawed?" Cat Tyrant's face went white and then red. "Declawed? You mutilated a cat?"

"No, I adopted a cat that had been declawed by his previous pet parent. What was I supposed to do, reject him because he'd been declawed? Mara needed a home, I wanted a cat. Simple."

Cat Tyrant was so far gone in indignation that she didn't hear him. "Are you aware that it's illegal in seven countries to declaw a cat?" she screamed, spraying SO's face with spittle.

SO went oh so gently over the border from amused into totally pissed off mode. "Yeah, but it's legal to eat them in all the others."

Cat Tyrant sputtered. She lunged forward to grab at the kitten SO held. The kitten tried desperately to stay with SO. "You're a barbarian."

I came out of hiding. SO wasn't a violent person, but he had a mean tongue. I didn't want to protect Cat Tyrant though. I wanted to join in the lashing. Wonder Twin powers activate!

SO drew closer to Cat Tyrant, and his voice got real quiet. "You know, I could go across the street to the other petshop and buy a hundred dollar kitten right now. And if I told the clerk I was going to sacrifice it to Satan tonight, do you know what he'd say? Cash, or charge?"

Cat Tyrant clutched the kitten close to her flat chest. It yowled.

"How many kittens did you adopt out today?"

"None," I answered for her.

"You have seventeen animals here, and no one was good enough to adopt them? Is this some kind of cruel sick-fuck game you play with people?"

Cat Tyrant was speechless.

SO opened one of the cages stuffed with kittens, reached in, and took one out. "I'm taking this one home."

"You can't do that!"

"Why not? They're not your property. Animals shouldn't have owners, right?"

SO and I walked out with the cat.

Skitters - the gray one - is extremely happy with her new friend Loki. She sure as hell looks content, wouldn't you say?

Can Erotica be more?

I have nothing against a good wank story. I love to read them, hope to write them. A debate rages among erotica writers about "literary" versus "non-literary" erotica and the value of it. I'm not sure exactly what non-literary erotica is. Porn? Whatever. I refuse to get pulled into the quality debate. It's too subjective. With the exception on non-consensual sex (anything with minors, rape, non-sentient beings, etc.), I support all erotic writing as valid creative work and as an expression of human sexuality. (Not to mention First Amendment rights, which are under seige.)

That being said, I've been striving for a bit more in my stories. Part of it is my internal debate over the validity of erotica as a separate genre. Sometimes I feel as if erotica writers raised the walls of our own ghetto, and then lamented that we were stuck inside. WE call it erotica. What if we didn't? Topping From Below was a mystery/thriller. Lofting and Raw Silk, it could be argued, were stories about women questing for Self. Laurell Hamilton's Anita Blake stories are shelved as horror. So why should I limit my stories by labeling them erotica?

My story Kells is an attempt to push the boundaries of erotica into the world of literary works. Don't call this a vampire story. The characters are vampires, but the story isn't about being a vampire. It's about that moment where you realize your first crush is a complete loser. Intense infatuation turns on a dime.

Tell me how well I did. Is it literature? Wank? Horror porn? Or do me a real favor--drop the label and simply tell me if you liked it.

Following Up On Destiny

If there's one thing I've learned from the Intelligent Design debate, it's that no pseudo-scientific test would be complete without follow-up crackpot analysis.

So here goes.

Looking at my weekend prediction, I forecast that I'd come up with an incredible story for a lesbian science-fiction anthology, the person reading my novel would e-mail me with a "I couldn't put it down, you're the greatest writer ever" message, my lotto ticket would be the sole winner of a huge jackpot, and when I walked through my front door that night, my SO would be safe at home - between the sheets.

How did I do?

No story for the anthology.

I did get feedback on my novel. Not exactly "best novel ever," but very encouraging.

I didn't win the lotto.

My SO was safe at home.

I'm thinking that's batting 1000.

Whoa, you might be thinking. Even being generous and giving you two out of the four, that's only 500.

Okay, you godless liberal heathen, I'll show you how faith based statistics work.

First - I might not have written a story, but who knows what fermented in my brain over the weekend that might, in the future, result in a story?

Second - I didn't win the lotto, but I didn't buy a ticket either. A person of deep spirituality like myself would never stoop to empirical tests of faith. If it's good enough for me to believe that if I'd bought a ticket, I would have won, then that delusion should be good enough for you too.

Third - the reader didn't hate my novel. I choose to take absence of proof as proof to the contrary. If the reader didn't hate it, then, through biblical interpretation, they loved it. See how that works?

Fourth - when I got home, the SO was eyeball deep in TIVO'd Rome episodes. After that primed the pump, so to speak, "between the sheets" was a given.

Looking back at my astonishing success rate, I'm thinking that I may take up this horoscope thing full time. The problem before was that I made it too specific. According to the Intelligent Design playbook, facts are to be shunned like Hester Prynne, and all debate should center on personal attacks (notice that I already called you a godless liberal), willful misinterpretations, opinion disguised as reason, and a lot of pseudo-scientific gibberish.

So here's my new prediction, good for all signs of the zodiac - "Today, something might happen, and you may respond negatively or positively." Oh, and by the way, just by reading horoscopes, you've condemned your soul to the fires of hell for all eternity.

Have a nice day!

Seize Destiny

I've put about 10 seconds of thought into this and I've decided to write my own horoscope for today.

I've mentioned before that I'm fascinated by religion, but I'm fascinated by train wrecks too, and I don't plan to get involved in either one any time soon. It's not that I don't want to believe, it's just that I'm so hard-core practical that my brain won't shut off and let me. I've always been that way. My parents claim that on Christmas Eve the year before I turned 3, I came up to them and said, "Let's get this straight, there's no Santa." Mom said all she could tell me was, "You're right honey, but please don't tell your older sisters. You'll ruin their Christmas." When Mom tells that story, I remind her that no 2 year old talks like that. She swears I did.

So I was a child prodigy at cynicism.

I don't believe in horoscopes any more than I believe in fortune cookies, but that doesn't take the fun out of willfully misinterpreting their contents. The trick, as everyone knows, is to add "between the sheets" to your fortune cookie saying.

Someone writes horoscopes, and I've decided that it might as well be me. After all, who has a better grip on what I need to hear? I thought about warning myself to beware of low-flying butterflies, or even chaos theory type butterflies flapping their wings in Asia and causing hurricanes in the Gulf of Mexico, but I want a practical, no-nonsense good fortune.

Therefore, for Capricorns like me, the outlook for today is that I will come up with an incredible story for a lesbian science fiction anthology, the person reading my novel will e-mail me with a "I couldn't put it down, you're the greatest writer ever" message, my lotto ticket will be the sole winner of a huge jackpot (I'm not greedy. 37 million should cover my needs), and when I walk through my front door tonight, my SO will be safe at home - between the sheets.

Life Away from the Computer

Monkey? Alien? Trollish editor? Or maybe it's a writer who didn't ever leave her computer. We found this amazing eight foot long, two and a half foot tall section of old aqueduct or something while hiking through a botanical garden.



The current rule seems to be that you can't simply write a great book and then slink off to the woods ala JD Salinger. Sound bites are in. Curmudgeon is out. Which is really too bad, because I have that whole anti-social writer thing down to a science.

When I'm typing, you better be on fire or bleeding profusely if you plan to interrupt. If you're not, it can be arranged.

Yet I love talking to other writers.

An ERWA lister needed a place to crash for the night while visiting LA. In exchange for my couch, I got to talk to her into the wee hours of the morning about writing. I love the lists I'm on and the conversations we have, but nothing compares to a real live person. To paraphrase Kate Dominic, but not by much, "Sometimes erotica writers just need to get together and talk about blowjobs."

A couple months ago I held a writer's salon at my place. I didn't have a huge turn-out, but again, it was a great experience. The information and ideas were flying around the room. I'm still thinking back to that wide-ranging conversation.

Since I enjoy talking about writing so much, I'm thrilled to be working at the writer's workshops at Conjecture 4 (October 7-9 in San Diego.) Being edited by Marcy Sheiner was the best writing class I ever took. She changed the way I approached my stories and the way I thought about them. I hope my critiques help the writers at Conjecture the way Marcy helped me.

In other writing news, I submitted my first non-erotic story today. It's science fiction, so it isn't entirely out of my genre, but I'm so conditioned to using sex to reveal my characters that it was a challenge to rely on dialog and action outside the bedroom (men's room, elevators, picnic tables...) to tell the story. Since I like to write near-future speculative fiction, one of the biggest problems I had was that science caught up to my story while I was writing it. I thought I was imaging something fairly out there, and then some brilliant scientist announced he'd done it. There goes the "fiction" part of it.

Speaking of that submission, Richard Labonte deserves good editor karma for acknowledging my e-mail submission. I like it so much when people extend that courtesy. Whether he accepts or rejects my story, I will thank him for his manners.

On the other end of the spectrum (the yin and yang of editors), word has it that one editor of a erotica anthology only notified writers that were accepted. The rest are simply supposed to guess that they're free to submit their stories elsewhere. Not content to rely on gossip, I e-mailed the editor asking for clarification. If it's true, I would love to hear the editor's reason for such unprofessional behavior, not that any excuse would be acceptable. If I were that editor, I'd rethink my policy. Writing rejection letters is part of the job description. Unpleasant, but necessary. Running from it doesn't make you any friends. Quality submissions are going to be harder to find next time around, because writers have long memories, and we talk about editors as much as editors discuss writers. Maybe more.

If I get a reply, I'll post it here. Maybe I should evoke the curse of the monkey on trollish editors.

In the Eye of the Beholder

Do you remember that Twilght Zone episode titled "In the Eye of the Beholder?"

A woman clings to the desperate hope that her doctors have transformed her from hideous to normal. She wants only to blend in with everyone else. They peel away the bandages. To us, she's the 1950's standard WASP beauty. But she looks in the mirror and cries. The nurses and doctors shake their heads in pity. They turn to the camera, and we see pig faces, their standard of beauty.

New Orleans and Biloxi are the patients this time around. Already, people are whispering about the opportunity to remake those cities. Forgive me, but my eyelid is twitching, because the standard of beauty in the United States right now for architecture is the equivalent of a pig face.

The uglification of America has got to stop. Blanding everything down for middle-America's taste isn't an improvement.

Some people understand this. Regional differences are beautiful. I've heard that billboards in Austin, Texas urge people to keep Austin Funky. Amen. Stop the onslaught of vanilla before it destroys us.

Be afraid, New Orleans. Be very afraid. They're going to sanitize you. They're going to McMall every inch they can grab. The government is going to immanent domain wide swaths "for the good of the people," and murder your communities.

The Mayor of New Orleans is sitting on top of a huge wave of approval right now. This is his moment to show what he's made of. I think that he truly loves his city. If he uses the power of public opinion to fight to keep it unique and funky, it will probably always love him back. I hope that he's got the balls to ignore the pressure to Disnify New Orleans.

What should happen is that community by community, planners sit down and discuss with the residents what they need to hold on to and what they'd like to see change. Then the government should adapt plans to fit those needs. There shouldn't be one grand vision for all of the city, because one size doesn't fit all.

Cities and communities are about people. Not megastores, not freeways, not cookie-cutter solutions. When people think about their neighborhood, they remember getting on their bike and riding down to the corner market for a snowcone on a sweltering July day. They think about a stripped cat hunting under the wide leaves of Mrs. Watkin's hydrangea bush. They remember the smell of hickory smoke as their uncles slow cooked a pork shoulder in the backyard, and the feel of the wooden steps to the back porch as they sat there sipping their cold beers. And that's what they'll be looking for when they come back. Comfort. Connection. Home.

I hope they find it.

Sanity Break

I'm guessing that they mean something entirely different from what I'm thinking.





Then again, maybe not.





It means EXIT. Of course. Where else does a fahrt come from?






Okay. I'll stop now.

New on My Bookshelf

Seven days stuck in paradise. No access to my computer. Three anthology deadlines looming like great looming things. (Thank you Messrs Curtis and Elton.) What else could I do but pace and read?

In spiritual support of New Orleans writers, I began my vacation by binging on Greg Herren's work and ended it by indulging in Poppy Z. Brite.

Murder in the Rue Dauphine and Murder in the Rue St. Ann feature Greg's detective Chanse MacLeod. The writing in Rue Dauphine was a little rough, but improved a lot by Rue St. Ann. I was ready to strangle Greg by the end of St. Ann, but that's a good thing. He sucked me into his characters and it pissed me off when things went terribly wrong.

I had a great conversation about Greg's Bourbon Street Blues and Jackson Square Jazz at a bookstore. All I had to say was "undercover go-go boy" and "stoner parents," and the Border's employee added these books to his personal reading list. These stories are lighter in tone than the Chanse MacLeod stories. The main character, Scotty, is too damn fun. I loved being inside his head.

All four of these books are worth picking up. However, if I had to choose, I think I'd read the Chanse MacLeod novels simply because I like a hard-boiled detective, and this character shows all the signs of heading down a dark path.


My original reading list for the trip was: Stephen King's On Writing, Ray Bradbury's Zen in the Art of Writing, Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City, Blood Lust, an anthology of erotic vampire tales edited by M. Christian and Todd Gregory, and Bite Club by Hal Bodner.

On Writing has been pimped so heavily on all my writing lists that I expected it to be a waste of time. It wasn't. I bent down many pages as I read through it to mark passages I wanted to revisit. If you write and want insights from someone who isn't a literary snob, this is your book.

I wish I could say the same for Zen in the Art of Writing. I enjoy the ideas in Bradbury's stories, but not his style. This book pretty much made me swear off his work forever. It is a collection of different drafts of one incoherent essay. Save your money.

I always thought Tales of the City was set in New York. If I'd known it wasn't, I might have read this book ten years ago. A lot of the Seventies stuff went right over my head, but I'm not curious enough to track down what EST is, or was. I'm sure that at the time this was written it was groundbreaking stuff. But nowadays, simply being queer isn't enough of a characterization to carry a story. Maybe it's not fair to judge a book out of its time. The characters were never more than names to me, and I had to flip back to the beginning chapters to remind myself who they were. Halfway through I stopped doing that, because I simply didn't care enough to backtrack again. I know - ouch, way ouch.

Blood Lust. This anthology had a lot going for it. I'm a fan of M Christian's work. His collection The Bachelor Machine is incredible. I've read Patrick Califia's Mortal Companion, so I was familiar with his character Ulric. Thomas Roche has a traditional hetero vampire tale in another anthology, Blood Surrender, that I also contributed to, but I like his Visitations in this book a lot more.

As with any anthology, there were stories I liked more than others. The Ward by Lukas Scott made good use of a hospital setting. Jeff Mann's Hemlock Lake was written in absolutely beautiful language. Mischief Night by Max Reynolds was strongly written and hot. Call me old fashioned, but I like my porn to show explicit sex. The glossary of Haitian terms was unnecessary, I thought, to enjoy Paul Crumrine's Bicycle Baka. Starlight by Jordan Castillo Price was a great pairing of predators.


Bite Club was the weakest book of those I read. Not recommended.


Poppy Z. Brite's novel Liquor was the other bookend to my week. Poppy started in horror and built quite a following. I've heard a lot of good about her work, but I'm not a big fan of horror, so I always passed her by. Last year at Conjecture III, a San Diego Science Fiction convention, writer Allison Lonsdale told me that Poppy switched to literature. So I decided to finally give Poppy a try. (By the way, I will be speaking at Conjecture 4 on October 7- 9, 2005 so if you're in San Diego, stop by and say hi. I'll say howdy back, and then you may buy me a drink.)

Liqour tells you a lot about the kitchen side of a restaurant, but not so much that it gets in the way. It's great to read about New Orleans outside of the French Quarter. There were a lot of loose ends in this book, so I wasn't surprised to see that Prime follows the same characters. I'll definitely pick it up. I may even read one of her horror novels. I suggest you do the same.


Sorry this was such a short list, but I only had seven days. I never got a chance to read through my past two issues of Other Magazine that I keep meaning to enjoy. (Sorry Charlie - and after all my bitching about not getting the latest issue!)

What are you reading?

New Orleans wrap up

Hurricane Katrina wasn't a single disaster. It was over a million individual armageddons.

I've given the idea of support a lot of thought and decided on a two-pronged effort.

This isn't a subject I like to bring up, because the highest form of giving is when the donor is unknown and unrecognized. I hate to deliberately set myself back on the path to enlightenment -- I do it often enough by accident-- but this subject matters more than karmic brownie points.

I've been reading dismaying reports about how our government actively discriminates against same-sex couples when dishing out the disaster $$, and big charities are playing along with that mind-set. So I thought I'd donate to NOAids Task Force, but their site is down. It stands to reason. They had to flee the city too. It must be breaking their hearts that they can't help their clients. If you're inclined to donate, you might want to look here.

I'm still mulling this over, but I will make a decision soon on where to channel my donation.

My other idea was to support New Orleans writers. See my next posting for books I read while on vacation.

As for K - we finally heard from him. He, his partner, and their cats, got out of the city. (And went to Key West, of all places.) His sister tells me that he was surprised as hell that we were all so concerned. She told me, "When I see K, I'm gonna slug him and then hug him, the little shit." That pretty much sums up my feelings.