happenings

Lots has been happening lately.

The muse, it seems, is back. It's difficult not to question why (or what or whom), but so far, I've just been enjoying the feeling of being compelled to write and having characters in my head again.

Virginia and Lars, for instance, who are an abridged version of last year's truncated NaNo attempt (Price above Aubies), keep residence during the day, where they insist upon tempting me to write in google docs about their burgeoning communication. I just might end up making this next year's attempt, only with the original characters.

And if you can believe it, Michael and Alice have been on my mind lately. They've gotten really good feedback from the interracial erotica site (you should go check that out if you haven't already), and I keep seeing Michael, a little more stocky and bearded now, in my head in the evenings. Alice is a little different now too; her hair is natural now; she wears it in cropped curls, and has switched from chanel (she can't bear to wear it anymore - it was 'their' scent), to something a little more mysterious and moody. Less commonly seductive and more studiously so. Guerlain Vol de Nuit, I think.

I can't tell if they're in Charleston or Savannah, but wherever they are, there is lots of history, some dark, some romantic, and all of it much older than it seems on the surface. A lot like them.

But what is hard to see is how it happens. How they get together again. Because all I know right now is that they do.

The big news, though, is that I won NaNoWriMo for the first time. No small feat, and curiously enough something that couldn't have happened without two things: one, the encouragement of a great writing partner/cheerleader/foot-to-ass-er, and two, to vent the inevitable emotional roller coaster of one of your worst fears coming to pass, and then disappearing.

It seemed only right that I write a story that encompassed discovery, memory, loss, grief, redemption, and love. Because all those were completely front and center this past month. The novel is dedicated to her, and whether or not it ever sees the light of day, it always will be partly her creation as well as mine.

So I'm working on a few submissions in the next couple of weeks. Because at the beginning of the year will begin an even larger project: NaTheWriMo.

That's right: Thesis: take two.

Get your popcorn and bookies' numbers out, y'all. This one's gonna be a doozy.

Oysters & Chocolate anthology...

So the O&C anthology is up for presale on amazon, and I couldn't be more thrilled.  "Cherries" was one of my favorite stories to write, and to be included in the anthology is a great privilege; nice way to begin 2009, non? 

The Husband has no idea about this one. And I've decided to keep it that way. No need in letting it on, and potentially embarassing his family and friends, or him, either. A pity, though. As the chef in the family, you'd think that the prospect of making a  dessert that could make a woman come would be intriguing, at the very least. 

Everyone focuses on food this time of year: from Thanksgiving until New Year's is a culinary orgy, with everyone putting every type of savory and sweet in their mouths, lamenting about "oh, I shouldn't" and "This is sooo bad", and licking their fingers and lips, asking for the recipie, making those little moans of bliss after the first -- or last bites. And then on January 1, we're all remorseful, vowing constancy and celibacy and moderation, and hating ourselves for every morsel. 

Hell, it sounds like me after I gave HJ a blowjob so spectacular that it made me dizzy. I knew I shouldn't have eaten him: he was younger, I wasn't all that experienced, he wanted a relationship I couldn't have with him....but oh, he was beautiful, and sweet, and I gave in. To this day, I get hungry just thinking of how I asked permission before I knelt between his thighs, his cock in my mouth, the sensation of his skin sliding between my lips, hearing his breath catch, not knowing if the soft moans were his or mine, his scent, his taste as he came and I drank him down until i was full. I'd never known it could be like that, that giving pleasure to a man that way could feel so  decadent and lovely. 

But the next day, I was ashamed and horrified. I tasted him in my mouth, like icing on the tongue  long after the party. I wouldn't take his calls. We never spoke again. I vowed to be a good girl, and behave, and not be so damned slutty. 

And so here I am, a good girl -- a lady, even --  who writes dirty books and keeps it quiet. And wishes she'd known she hadn't even been bad.  So this year, I resolve just that. To not be good or bad, to just be.  What is good? 1200 calories a day? Making the bed every morning? Saying please and thank you? What is bad? Sucking cock and liking it? Pecan pie?  Doing week 1 of Couch to 5k for 3 weeks? 

Looking back with pleasure is far preferable to sighing with regret. 

happy new year, 

-A.

Longing

In graduate school, there was a young man, beautiful and smart and blonde, that I longed for. Desired. Craved. Coveted. 

And for many reasons, chiefly, that he was beautiful, smart, and blonde, I never pursued him. Ever. I may have spoken to him twice throughout my three years in the program. I'm sure if he had but known the awful poetry and erotica so complementary that it bordered on fanfic, he would have smiled at me -- if only to persuade me to stop. 

I have a long, awful history of longing for things. Love. Lust. Jewelry. Redheads. Men with deep voices. Men with bad reputations. Shoes that will certainly hobble me within an hour. 

Certainly there is more to this than bad judgement? For all the bad things that can come of all these -- heartbreak, debt, heartbreak... I can't say that wanting is such a bad thing. Want inspires. Lust drives. What is fiction -- especially erotic fiction -- but the expression of desire? 

Call me selfish if you like, but do not call me satisfied. 

It's been a long time....I shouldn't have left you...

between School, reading 2 books (The Book of the Courtesans and The Judas Testament), trying to battle insomnia, and taking up running (Couch to 5k, I love/hate you!), I've been horrible at keeping up with my muse, much less this blog. 

Which is wrong-headed, and I should know better -- there's nothing better for inspriration than to write. 

Poetry (including one of my favorites by Matthew Arnold) has been seeing me to sleep lately, which my muse (unnamed) seems to enjoy. And running, for whatever reason, seems to help with the determination bit. 

So this is me, vowing to write more. And hoping my muse will show up, even unawares. I'll leave with the aforementioned poem by Arnold:

Longing

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For then the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Matthew Arnold (1822-1888)

Succulent....

Not bad, being a "bestselling author". (it does count, doesn't it, contributing to a NYT bestselling anthology?) A pity I couldn't have shared the fun and success of being in the anthology with more people, but really? It's a little fun having a secret. But perhaps one day it won't have to be.

day/nightdreaming

there were parts of the dream she couldn't remember: how she'd ended up in the meadow, where exactly she was, the scent in the air that, upon waking, had made her nostalgic for something that tickled the back of her mind and made her smile. The color of the man's eyes that sat with her on the blue and red plaid picnic blanket. What she wore that fell away so easily underneath his touch. The sex she knew they'd had: easy and slow, rhythmic strokes that she remembered as waves in her thighs and calves and breasts. She'd felt the sun, as warm as his skin, and looked through oak leaves up at a sea-blue sky as she came, the sky turning to blue-black ceiling when her contracting womb forced her awake.

Under her desk at work, she crosses her legs against the maddening ache between her thighs, the vacancy making her recall how well she'd been filled the night before. Seeking distraction, she rests her chin on her palm, unable to seek distraction in her work, and focuses on the bright summer green of trees across the street. The pines there are hazy dull, unlike the oaks in the dream. Only eleven more hours until she is in the meadow again.

Oysters & chocolate story is up!

I remember writing this, and setting it aside after letting "jon" have a look at it. It was a bit personal, but certainly taking leave with one's old apartment and friends is the writer's perrogative, non?

At any rate, the story is up at Oysters and Chocolate, which is a fun site (and a pity I can't peruse it at work!)

Do Enjoy,

A.