Dita's Den

Drummers do it with perfect timing

2012-02-01T13:53:00.000+01:00

Temperature: a sunny -15/5 degrees

Eating: Caesar salad

Drinking: Gefilus cultured buttermilk. My stomach loves that stuff. Loves.

Watching: see below

Listening: to Hubby drumming on his new kit

Reading: RD to the kids. Not Roald Dahl. Roddy Doyle.

Writing: you bet

Feeling: You really wanna know or are you just making conversation?

Undisclosed desires

2012-01-27T14:18:00.000+01:00

Sex with a stranger/celebrity/friend. Sex with two or more partners. Sex with another woman (if you're a woman). Sex with another man (if you're a man). Roleplay. Dominating/being dominated by your partner. Light BDSM. Voyeurism. Exhibitionism. Exotic locations. The stuff erotic novels and sexual fantasies are made of.

Some dream factories churn out produce on an industrial scale (hello author friends!), some are more moderate in their output, but everyone fantasizes about something at some point. Psychologist Brett Kahr anonymously surveyed 18,000 Brits and Americans about their sexual fantasies and found that nine out of ten people have them. The remaining tenth person? Probably too embarrassed to fess up.

Sexual fantasies have to be the most common expression and form of experiencing sexuality. They're also a highly personal and individual thing and thus one of the most hush-hush. The shame and guilt they arouse in some is unnecessary albeit understandable. Any situation or object can be eroticized, turned into a fetish, but for the longest time any "kinky" or "strange" fantasies were considered pathologic, especially in women. (Remember our discussion about Hysteria, vibrators and masturbation? Yeah.)

Free sexual expression and enjoyment is not a universal idea or ideal. In too many parts of the world, sexual fantasies are for historical, cultural, religious, heteronormative, erotophobic and what have you reasons still strictly taboo, corruptive thoughts brought to you if not by Beelzebub himself then something abnormal and twisted in you. Is it any wonder that's what your brain may scream when certain thoughts cross your mind: This is wrong. I'm wrong, right? No, you're curious and imaginative and tapping into the positive life force that is your sexuality. Not fantasizing is the aberration.

I want to address one popular theme, being dominated/forced seduction, because it's so baffling to the Average Joe. I'm befuddled as to why because Joe fantasizes about being dominated, too. An independent, strong modern woman wants to be dominated. Well Joe, when you carry your own weight alongside caring for others, when you are sensible and responsible and dependable 24/7, giving up all control is a very tempting, titillating fantasy. That is not where we'd like to end up, but that's where we sometimes go to take a break from the demands of daily life. And Joe, even in a forced seduction scenario, it's not about you. It's not about getting hurt or being humiliated. It's about safely handing over control, submitting while being in total control. I know. It's complicated. People are complex. Tastes, themes and motivations vary. So Joe, above all, respectfulness. Always, okay?

Where were we? Yes. Popular themes. Just as you fantasize about the naughty and nice things you'd love to do with your partner, one of your partner's favorite fantasies is you. Things you've done in the past and they like to revisit, things they dream of doing to you, with you, in the future. If you've fallen into a rut, if you feel your sex life is lacking in variety, sharing a fantasy is a great way to spice up things.

But first you have to open your mouth and put it out there, and that's a scary prospect. It's one of those moments when you realize you don't know everything there is to know about your partner, and they don't know all about you. You face rejection and/or ridicule. What if what you find stimulating turns them off? What if their favorite fantasy is your worst nightmare? "You want (me) to do what?" I think the most important thing to remember when introducing a fantasy is to treat your partner as a full participant, not a prop. Make it about what you could experience and enjoy together, a mutual fantasy, not just what you want. Of course you can agree to try out something only because your partner asked. Who knows? You may be happily surprised, find a new favorite.

But I wouldn't want anyone to do anything against their will, especially if it involves inviting other people into the bedroom. If it disturbs you, scares you or makes you uncomfortable, do not do it. If your partner says no, don't push it. If you agree to try out something you're not one hundred percent sure about, reserve the right to stop at any point and make sure everyone is on the same page. It's all fun and games until someone gets hurt, physically or emotionally.

Also, if your fantasies are becoming compulsive in nature, if fantasizing is the only way you get aroused/off with your partner, if your mind is always somewhere else with someone else, do stop to think about what's going on. If your partner has no role in certain fantasies, I don't see the point of sharing them. Hmmm. Unless it's a particular brand of verbal foreplay you both enjoy. Anyhow, it's the difference between your partner telling you s/he fantasizes about watching you having sex with X and you telling them you fantasize about sex with X. You know what I mean?

Certain fantasies may have to remain in the realm of erotic films, fiction and your imagination, perfectly fine and safe substitutes and outlets, mind you. Some fantasies may get lost in translation and disappoint. You gave it a try, it was okay but not great, moving on. Let's face it, you can do pretty much anything you like in a fantasy, things you would never manage/dare in real life. That's the whole point, so there are apt to be disappointments. S'okay. It happens.

Should you feel guilty you fantasize about sex with X even when you really really love your partner and would never in a million years have sex with X even if the opportunity offered itself? I don't see why. I don't believe there's a soul out there whose mind's eye hasn't wandered at least once. After all, fantasies are a great way to fire desire. So you had a fleeting thought about X. If you're going home with Y and gladly so, why worry?

For a deeper understanding of this Extremely Private & Incredibly Common phenomenon, consult e.g.
Michael Bader: Arousal: The Secret Logic of Sexual Fantasies
Nancy Friday: Beyond My Control: Forbidden Fantasies in an Uncensored Age; Forbidden Flowers; My Secret Garden
Brett Kahr: Who’s Been Sleeping in Your Head: The Secret World of Sexual Fantasies
Stanley Siegel: Your Brain on Sex
Your partner
Your psyche

Have fun, dearest denizens, and keep thinking sexy thoughts. Everyone else is.

See you tomorrow

2012-01-26T09:25:00.000+01:00

In the works

2012-01-20T12:13:00.000+01:00

Undisclosed desires, or, where did a nice girl like you get a naughty idea like that, aka my Frisky Friday post on sexual fantasies.

Postponed due to a conglomeration of adverse weather conditions, logistical challenges and a meniscus on the mend, aka yours truly madly deeply playing mom, dad, chauffeur, cook, janitor, nurse, and anything else you'd care to imagine but can't help with.

Going live Friday the 27th, aka a week from now, same time, same bat-crazy channel. Until then, think sexy thoughts. (And don't you dare deny you have them because I've done my homework; I just have to get my notes and thoughts in order.)

Proof of life

2012-01-17T12:47:00.000+01:00

How was your weekend, dearest denizens? I know, it's Tuesday, but it feels like a Monday. So how was it, le weekend? I had a festive, family one. My sister turned thirty and my niece was baptized and we all got together and it was such a perfect day.

We now have an Amelie in the family and she looks just like my brother, which makes her a very handsome girl (as Austenites know, the height of beauty, so stop cringing, she's the cutest!).

As long as there are babies and books and brothers and sisters and music and dance and bubbly, I don't care about the vitriol being projectile vomited through the nostrils of social media sites and news media alike. It's exactly what it seems: bad jokes in bad taste not to be taken seriously or to heart. (No, seriously. What gives? You need a hug? What is it?)

Have a great week, sweetie darlings, wherever you are.

Risky Friday

2012-01-13T11:44:00.000+01:00

[With regards and apologies from the proprietor, a topical rerun.]

Run! Run for your lives, it's Friday 13th!! Just make sure you don't step on any cracks or run under a ladder, especially if there's a black cat in the vicinity, or pass anyone running for dear life, at least not on the stairs, on your way to the safe haven that is your home, where most accidents happen, by the way, making sure you leave your umbrella outside to dry, or, come to think of it, don't touch it all day, a change into dry clothing will have to do, kick off your shoes taking care they don't land on your bed or the table or anywhere else for that matter, so why not leave them outside with that cursed, cursed! umbrella, feed the parakeet or better yet throw it out just to be on the safe side, I mean, birds in the house and all that, you're really asking for it, aren't you, settle for a nice quiet evening at home, maybe invite some friends over as long as it's not a party of thirteen, and don't bother changing your bed, stupendously stupid idea, and do not even dream of going away to get away, not gonna work, I tells ya, steer clear of mirrors and salt shakers but keep one handy anyway, and you'll be all set.

And secondly, as Fidel Castro used to say two hours into a speech, carefree Friday, sweetie darlings!

A design for life

2012-01-10T10:50:00.000+01:00

The poet Juvenal urged his fellow Romans to pray for a sound mind in a healthy body. His first century prompt still stands. Whether you're an author or an athlete, both the mind and the body need to be in shape if you want to go the distance, rep after rep, mile after mile, page after page, reach the finish line. First, last, doesn't matter. You finish, you win.

I read about a guy who ran a marathon without a mile or minute of training, in denim shorts. He didn't do it to prove that it was easy. (In denim shorts, I suspect it was rather uncomfortable). He set out to show there's no secret, no mystery, that it's possible.

Now before you take to the streets in your cut-offs, a) consult a physician, b) learn technique, c) set a realistic goal and commit to it, d) be regular and be relentless, e) accept the fact there will be days when you won't feel like it, at all, and when that happens, f) be honest: do you need a break or just a kick in the butt?

The lessons I've taken away from physical exercise have helped me immensely in writing and life. They've helped me get over rough patches and disappointments, they've given me pause and perspective, a sense of proportion; they've generated a certain kind of confidence and a calm not many things can bring.

So what have I learned? Perseverance, self-motivation and self-discipline for one. Talent, inspiration and a general feeling of that-looks-like-fun-I-could-do-that only takes you so far. The rest involves facing and battling with the usual suspects: fear, doubt, inner demons, things beyond your control, lethargy (real fatigue or sheer laziness), and things that in no way stand in your way but you use as an excuse when you're just not feeling it. It's working diligently without any promise of reward. Most of the time, the work itself, the pleasure of doing, is your only reward. Still up for it? Get cracking.

The ability to concentrate on the here and now and the task at hand while shutting out everything else. And I do mean talk to the hand because the rest of me isn't listening. Come to think of it, the hand is otherwise occupied as well.

There is such a thing as Flow. And it's all it's cranked up to be. A state where you could write, run, insert your favorite pastime, effortlessly, until the end of time. It's a beautiful thing.

There is such a thing as The Wall. It's debilitating, yes, but not paralyzing. There are ways out and around. Always. You just have to find out what works for you.

You learn through repetition but practice does make you if not perfect, better. The boring necessary evil part, I guess. It takes thousands of repetitions to perfect a move, to make a response an automatic one, to get rid of bad habits and/or instill new and better ways of doing things.

Good habits are just as hard to kick as bad ones. So get addicted. Adrenaline, endorphin and the flow thingy are just as much of a high as cake, cigarettes and candy are.

Overtraining happens. You get excited, carried away even, overdo it and before you know it, you stop making progress. Actually, you're taking one step up and two steps back. Then again...

Keep doing what you're doing and you'll keep getting what you're getting. If that's where you were headed all along, congratulations, you've arrived. Or hit a plateau. Time to reassess those goals.

Rest and replenishment. An essential need, not a weakness. Absolutely vital if you want to keep growing. I've taken a break, or I've been forced to take one, only to come back stronger or just as strong as I was before the break.

Confidence, Jedi style. This is hard to teach and even harder to fake. You need to feel it to be able to project it. But when you have it, you walk through a crowd that would have sent you running in the past and the crowd parts like the Red Sea. You don't scowl or growl. You don't do your best Dirty Harry at all. You just... Okay. Hard to teach, fake and explain.

You can't win them all. Not every race, not every competitor. Play the game long enough and you will come across someone faster, stronger. There will be setbacks, moments of frustration, doubt and utter despair when you question the sanity of what it is you're doing. Time to quit or commit anew. And that's just the way it is.

You can't outsource this stuff. There's no pill that has quite the same effect. Above all, it's fun and it's energizing and it's life-affirming. It's such an adventure, finding out what the body can and can't do. What a design. What an instrument. Take care of it and it will take care of you. That's all I'm saying.

Spoken like a true fitness fascist, you say? No. No no no. I'm a hedonist. I love sensual pleasures. I love food and tipple. I love planning a meal. I love cooking and eating. Ooh, and baking. But I really really like my exercise, too. (And I repeat: Not. A. Fascist. It's the health/feel-good thing that drives me, not weight loss. Weight loss is a byproduct, not the goal. But if it's your goal, consider this: when you do exercise, regularly, you don't have to watch every bite, you can go all-out hedonist on occasion and still respect yourself the next day.)

Bottom line: No exercise makes Dita a very cranky, restless girl. I crave a physical outlet just as much as I do an intellectual one. It doesn't have to be choreographed or complicated, it just has to get me moving, and right now, the mind is willing but the body isn't able and doesn't that just suck and blow. The flu has been raging through the family since January first, the holidays being the perfect time to exchange not only gifts but germs as well, so I've been out of sorts all year. I bet I can think of ten more lessons the second I press Publish. Because my mind isn't functioning properly since my body isn't. Oh well. Such is life.

[One more thing. I suspect one of the reasons some aren't moving at all is that getting and keeping fit looks like a choreographed and complicated affair where if you don't have the right gear or don't know the latest fitness fad, if you don't go to a certain gym or if you think the equipment look like something Monsieur Guillotine must have devised, you need not bother at all. Nothing could be further from the truth, sweetie darlings! Nothing!! Don't believe the hype!!! You don't need money to get fit. You don't need product X, brand Y, or gym Z. You can walk yourself fit. Dance in your own living room. You can do loads of things with your own bodyweight and nothing but. Look it up. Carrying your own weight. Literally and figuratively. I guess that's what it's all about.]

The winner takes it all

2012-01-01T14:00:00.000+01:00

Everybody accounted for? Hair not hurting too much, I hope? I started the year with a very sore throat and a slight fever, and I wish I could say it's because I rocked harder than a love swing all night long. Then again, the only way is up! The year can only get better.

Yeah yeah yeah, yakety yak, hey lady, where's that gift card? I wish I could have given everyone something, so let's do this again sometime. But for now, boy am I glad I didn't have to decide who to give it to. I asked the Oracle known as random.org to choose and the Oracle said...

Jennifer L.

Jennifer, stand by for a message from yours truly madly deeply.

Thank you all for stopping by and taking part, don't be strangers, you hear!

Wishing everyone a most awesome year 2012,

D.

Raise your glass

2011-12-30T16:33:00.002+01:00

New Year's Day: Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual.
~Mark Twain

All I've promised is to give away a $20 Ellora's Cave gift card on January first, so if you'd like a chance to win it, leave your email addy after the beep.

Have an absolutely fabulous 2012!

Beep.

Hope springs eternal

2011-12-22T15:07:00.000+01:00

[If you're looking for the XXX-mas giveaway, it's in the previous post.]

Dearest denizens,

What a year 2011 has been! I don't know how 2012 can top the madness or the beauty, all I know is it will try.

I know I'm looking forward to it. I know I haven't been as out and about as I probably should have been, but awkwardly aware as I am of how useless I've been as a Romantica writer (thanks for the reminders, M, what are friends for), I've unconsciously okay consciously tried not to draw too much attention to just how desperately useless I've been. It's not as if I haven't tried. To succeed, I mean, not suck.

If I deserve it, an offer will come. In the meantime, I hope I manage to entertain at least some of you. I hope that whatever is hurting you passes. I hope that those who are alone still appreciate the break the holidays afford. I hope that wherever you are, your holiday spirit runs high. I hope that in the spirit of that spirit, unless your goal is to be the wealthiest body in the boneyard, you give as good as you get.

Be good, sweetie darlings. Have fun, be grateful, be kind.

Wishing you peace, joy, and peace of mind on this shortest day of the year,

With love,
Dita

XXX-mas poll and giveaway

2011-12-16T10:25:00.000+01:00

I'm dreaming of a white Christmas... I am, I am! The sun now rises way after nine and sets at three, what snow we've gotten has melted, and it has been the rainiest December in fifty years. [Last month was the warmest November in fifty years. We've been breaking weather records almost every season. A coincidence? I think not.] Dark and desolate? Definitely. So someone send some snow to lighten and brighten things up. Pronto. Please. But not as much as last year or the year before that. There is no need to exaggerate. We'd be quite content with the golden mean. Thanks.

The last seven days in seventy words: had a lovely wedding anniversary, Christmas shopping done, cards sent, menu set, deadlines met, saw three dudes pull off every Shakespeare play in two hours, the full moon was beau-ti-ful, oldest was really sick one day and fine the next, again, (seriously, the child is übermenschlich), youngest is up all night with growth pains, again, (that child will grow up to be ten feet tall), and my niece was born!

Now...now I think it's time to wrap up this year's Frisky Fridays. I haven't done polls or giveaways here at the Den, and you've been such good sports, visited and commented, so what do you say, dearest denizens, how about we send off 2011 with a bang and a whimper and do both?! They're not interlinked. You don't have to vote to enter. You can vote and skip the contest. Naughty or nice, every adult on the planet is eligible.

You'll find the simple XXX-mas poll question at the top of the right-hand column. If everyone's happy, my work here is done. If not, maybe some more Frisky Fridays are in order in 2012. Want an Ellora's Cave Romantica Publishing $20 gift card too/instead? Let me know by leaving a working email addy (working!, not stuffed to capacity, better luck next time) in comments, or by dropping me a line at ms[dot]ditaparker[at]gmail[dot]com (subject line: XXX-mas giveaway), and on January first, I'll let random.org decide and off shopping you go!

Okay! I think that's all for now. Spread the word. That gift card, if you hit the Vault, buys you up to twenty (20!) ebooks. Or would you prefer a Cavemen 2012 Calendar and some recent releases? You decide, I provide.

Ah, it is better to give than to receive. Which reminds me... But that's none of your business, sweetie darlings. Now shoo, go make someone happy, and yourself in the process. Oh, and if you know a really good shaman, ask for snow!!!

You will meet a tall blond stranger

2011-12-09T13:08:00.000+01:00

Did I ever.

I don't know why but I've always liked them more on the dark side. Not *that* dark side. Eyes, hair, complexion. Imagine my surprise when I found myself totally in lust and love with a blue-eyed blond with skin smooth and pale like marble. Is he the exception that proves the rule? He's exceptional, that's for sure. Best of all, he's all mine.

No Frisky Friday today, ladies and gents, which, as always, doesn't mean you shouldn't have one. I fully intend to practice what I preach. It's our wedding anniversary weekend, you see. Eleven years. Eleven years? Eleven years?! Wow. Time sure flies when you're having fun. And when it hasn't been fun, when we've been forced to be apart, when we've been more tired parents than husband and wife, we've still been friends and soul mates in every way that matters. And you don't leave your friends in times of need, yours, theirs, you carry each other.

We still want each other, a lot and quite often. We share a quirky sense of humor. We find the same things unfair, worth fighting for/against. We work in very different fields, and even if we don't understand all the ins and outs of what the other does, we still find it immensely interesting, like a window to a parallel universe. We don't agree on everything, we don't like all of the same things, but we listen to and respect one another.

All of the above have carried us for eleven years now, and I hope they carry us for eleven more and beyond. Because I love him more than any man I've ever known. Because I still wake up some mornings and stare at him, just stare at him while he sleeps, and think I must be dreaming.

For country or for crowd

2011-12-07T16:12:00.000+01:00

Temperature: 0/32

Eating: mixed nuts

Drinking: glögg

Watching: The Nightmare Before Christmas later tonight

Listening: to the kids collaborating on a poster for I don't know what yet

Reading: Mankell's latest, Minnet av en smutsig ängel, in Swedish. It's gonna take like three years, but hey, anything for the sake of expanding one's vocabulary. (Forget Nordic Noir, give his other novels a try!)

Writing: trying to plot (plot!) a story I've been dying to dig into for a while

Feeling: Can you serve two masters? If you've succeeded, tell me how.

Happy 110th

2011-12-05T10:32:00.000+01:00

I do not make films primarily for children. I make them for the child in all of us, whether we be six or sixty. Call the child "innocence". The worst of us is not without innocence, although buried deeply it might be. In my work I try to reach and speak to that innocence, showing it the fun and joy of living; showing it that laughter is healthy; showing it that the human species, although happily ridiculous at times, is still reaching for the stars.

December will be magic again

2011-12-01T11:58:00.000+01:00

I'm sorry for the radio silence, sweetie darlings. It's all good, promise! It means I've been hard at work. It means I hope to have good news to relate in the coming weeks.

So much to wrap up before Jesus faces off with Santa, but I deny being stressed out. There is no need to panic. Not yet, anyway. I'm on schedule with deadlines, even the self-imposed ones, and I've got a Teflon suit to don if the sound and the fury of the pre-X-mas fuss starts feeling a bit too much.

Mad Men beware, we have read our Seuss at Casa Dita. "Maybe Christmas," he thought, "doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas...perhaps...means a little bit more." The kids have written Santa (and once again, he does not, I repeat, he does not live on the North Pole. At the Arctic Circle, okay?). They know Jesus put the Christ in Christmas. But what they're most excited about, what they anxiously wait for all fall, are the little things they remember doing last year, and the year before that, every year a bit more.

Tradition. The scourge of change and progress, and a source of comfort and continuity. Some traditions I've introduced, some come from Hubby's side. The best by far are the ones the whole family has had a hand in creating. New ones. Ours. Decades old or brand spanking new, traditions put the Christmas in my Christmas.

I will catch myself at the intersection of chronos and kairos, teaching something I remember being taught, having a meaningful conversation over a mundane task, hands hard at work, minds wide open. In the middle of giving instructions, telling a story, answering questions over the counter, I will look at my children, their faces glowing, cheeks full of cookie dough, hands breaded in flour, and see myself. In that instant, the past, present and future bleed into one. I'm a girl. I'm a woman. I'm an old dame. And everything makes such perfect sense.

P.S. Thanks for all the best wishes I've received during the year, Special Mention: chain letters promising fortune and fame. Alas, they didn't work. Maybe I jinxed them. Never passed them on. We'll never know. But. I've devised the perfect plan to ensure next year is glitch-free. Next year, just send me a check, some bourbon and bonbons, a Marlies Dekkers gift card, or an extra hour to my day. Or make a donation to your favorite charity. Support your favorite authors, buy their books! Get some for your friends, too!! Much appreciated!!! Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have lunch.

Girls on film

2011-11-25T18:08:00.000+01:00

Caveat lector: If you are a minor, leave. If you object to viewing sexually explicit material, including but not limited to images/video of nude adults, adults engaged in sexual acts and/or other sexually oriented material, leave. If your community prohibits the viewing of such material or there are federal/local laws which prohibit the viewing/possession of adult oriented material, leave. If you believe that regardless of content and context all porn is the same, that everyone involved is a victim of abuse, probably on drugs, and forced in front of the camera, leave. No, wait, maybe you should read on, just this once.

Sex is emotion in motion.
~Mae West

Porn. Quick. What's the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word? A woman with chest enough for two and the vulva of a prepubescent girl going through the motions with a hung guy or two, even three? Heels, thongs, fake boobs, fake orgasms, facial ejaculations, and little/no emphasis on female pleasure? Unsafe practices, women reduced to sex objects, violent acts sexualized? Repetitive, formulaic, lame, images stripped of any authenticity, of healthy sexuality, sex based on trust, respectfulness and consent, on true intimacy, on mutual passion and satisfaction?

Who wants to watch that? Who wants to do that, on camera, for all to see? I guess the latter is one for the countless couples/individuals (enhancement-free for the most part) making porno at home and putting their posterior online for posterity for all eternity, most for free, some for a fee. But maybe you're not interested in either variety, neither the mainstream movies nor filming what you'd like to watch, let alone flashing the world (your imagination and bandwidth is the limit!).

Maybe you'd like to watch some some-some all the same, alone or with your partner. Maybe you feel that since tastes and orientations vary, and since women are watching, too, adult films should reflect this diversity. Maybe you feel, as I do, that sex is such a healthy, fun, positive thing that it's a shame porn has given it a bad name; that porn has become a blanket term; that sex is too important to be left in the hands of venture capitalists.

Make no mistake, there are a lot of sad people and sad stories in the business, everything from I-was-young-and-needed-the-money to human trafficking. Commercial sexual exploitation is a serious problem. When you feel that what you're watching is racist and/or discriminatory in nature, that it's abusive and/or demeaning toward women, there's a problem. If viewing porn has become compulsive, if you feel addicted, if it's affecting your relationships, your work, how you divide your time, you have a problem. If you can't get aroused/off without watching, you have a problem. [Remember when we talked about how rough stimulation can desensitize the body? The brain is no different. Consume responsibly, for your own sake.] If you're baffled because your date refused to let you help yourself to every orifice, I mean, is she normal, isn't that sex, the women in those films not only seemed ready, willing and able, they seemed to enjoy it, you have a problem. When you forget that porn is an industry, the participants performers, the act an act, and the end product a product, a source of revenue, you have a problem.

So maybe you feel as I feel that that there has to be something else out there. Maybe you feel like rejecting the reality offered by the mainstream porn industry (i.e. a male-dominated fantasy) and substituting your own. I'm happy to report there's a slowly but steadily growing movement trying to do just that. Sex-positive, female-friendly, high-end websites, independent production companies, distributors and filmmakers catering to all races and orientations, women writing and directing with women in mind and female pleasure and ethical production values as their guiding light.

I want to introduce you to a few. Some I've found a while ago, some I've just befriended but they came highly recommended via women whose judgment I trust so I feel safe passing them on. Of course I have no idea what you like. There's a good chance you're here because you read erotic romance, so maybe that's where you should start, by taking a minute to think about what stories turn you on and what setups turn you off and take it from there. One woman's fantasy is another woman's nightmare, so feel free to click away or delve deeper according to your tastes.

Bleu Productions
Fetish and erotica films by independent, award-winning filmmaker Maria Beatty.

Cinema Erotique
Female-focused fetish and fantasy à la Cherry Chapman.

Femme Productions
A line of woman-friendly erotic movies.

Good for Her
A diverse mix, Special Mention: the Feminist Porn Awards.

Good Vibrations
Another diverse mix.

Hot Movies for Her
And another.

I Feel Myself
A female (authentic) orgasm appreciation site par excellence.

Kink.com
Your destination (18 sites, actually) for all things kinky, BDSM and fetish. Safe, sane and consensual!

The Crash Pad Series
Director and producer Shine Louise Houston explores female and queer sexuality.

The Masseuse starring Jenna Jameson and (then husband) Justin Sterling. I know what you're thinking because I thought so too, that aren't these mainstream porn stars, but this came up so many times, described as a fairly regular love story with really hot sex, centered on female pleasure, maybe we should check it out, what do you say?

Tristan Taormino’s Chemistry Series
I'm not a fan of reality television, but these reality porn movies got honorable mentions for, well, chemistry, hot and authentic, so I'm giving these the benefit of the doubt even though I haven't seen them. And because it's TT. Porn performers left to their own devices, when, where and with whom strictly up to them, focused on female pleasure.

The Viv Thomas production The Art of Sex.

x-art.com
As the tagline reads, beautiful erotica. Just like The Art of Sex, it does what it says on the tin. These are really sensual.

One thing pro-porn and anti-porn advocates seem to agree on is the need to raise awareness about content. And it's not just a feminist issue or a women's issue. Countless men are just as insulted by and tired of the mainstream portrayals of women, sex and sexuality. They are fathers who worry over the sons and daughters who will come across these images sooner or later. Will it affect their self-image, how they view and treat others, their relationships? Because sex should be a positive, pleasurable experience, not frightening, degrading or disturbing.

The answer to bad porn isn't no porn...it's to try and make better porn!
~Annie Sprinkle

If you don't know me by now

2011-11-18T11:56:00.000+01:00

I've been having the weirdest dreams this week. Weird weird weird. It's also been a productive week, which is nice. I've known the other variety, too. I've been thinking a lot about last year and last fall lately and how maybe it's not a surprise that the Romantica I submitted, rewrote and still couldn't get right didn't work out. I'm absolutely astonished I managed to write anything at all, all emotion one minute, feeling nothing the next just to stop the hurting, even for a second, as I was. Some of the stuff I do profitted from the detachment, other areas suffered a severe blow. Turned out I'm not Superwoman. Imagine my surprise.

Ah, sweetie darlings, we are all just troubled souls, aren't we, swimming in an ocean of illusion, dead calm on the surface, violent currents underneath. How can I say that? I don't know you, you say? I know how you feel. [Look into my eyes.] I know how you feel. [Look into my eyes.] I know how you feel. [Not around the eyes. The eyes.]

I know how you feel.

What the hell?

I'm hypnotising you into forgetting it's Frisky Friday. It's not working, is it? (And did I promise to post every Friday? I can't check if I did. It'll drive me to drink if I did, and now is not a good time, seriously.) I know what you're thinking. I didn't have time to write a post, right? Wrong. I started writing about porn, one thing led to another as it often does, and before I knew it I had written some seven thousand words instead of seven hundred and oops.

It's the curse of the multidisciplinary mind. It ain't funny. It's a curse. A curse! It has you wishing you had a spare brain or two, 72 hours in a day, a desert island and an extra month all to yourself so you could read and write and read and write and try it out and try it again because that's how you make sense of life the universe and everything, and that you could live to two hundred because there's so much to do and look into and try to understand, too much!, in one lifetime. What a fascinating world we live in, dearest denizens. Fantastic! And people, OMG, people are the best, and relationships better than best, and what about sex? None of us would be here if it weren't for that drive!! Brilliant!!!

So I got a little carried away as I'm wont to do in my pathology and have stuff enough for ten blog posts about pornography, and maybe one day we'll look into those one interesting tidbit at a time, but first I need to sift through the thing, choose a POV, my position (but I want all positions!), and write a focused, coherent post about porn, not a Theory of Everything. And I've only started looking for No-Performers-Were-Scarred-For-Life-While-Making-This-Movie movies for your viewing pleasure, because there's porn and then there's porn, and if you'd like visual stimulation beyond what reflects from the mirrors around the house you should be getting some, but not just any ol' crap.

I'll dig up some suggestions for next Friday. When some of you will be elbow-deep in turkey and gravy. Well, The Rest of The World won't be. Everyone is equally welcome to join and pitch in when Frisky Friday ventures into the world of adult movies. Same time, same bat-crazy channel. Until then, if you can't be good, be careful, okay. And keep thinking those sexy thoughts.

The choice is yours

2011-11-11T12:52:00.000+01:00

I love my job. I love Hubby's job, too. I wouldn't survive it for a minute. Then again, he couldn't write to save his life. He wouldn't stop as long as his heart beat in his chest, though. He would die trying, my hot man from the cold.

His hours are far from conventional, and that's okay. In fact, it's a bonus. We've had a steamy office romance going for as long as I've worked from home. What? Tsk. As if you wouldn't take advantage of the situation. Born to be mild or wild, moaner/screamer/do you want to get arrested, you would if you had kids and the constant prospect of interruption that comes with the package.

But the surest way to put out a fire is to deprive it of oxygen. So tonight I'll step out for some air and spend the evening with two women I'm absolutely demented about, women who love me as Hubby does, for me, women I love, admire and respect with all my heart.

You can't be all things to one person. No one person will ever fulfill all your needs. Expect that and set yourself up for disappointment. I wouldn't survive doing what Hubby does because I haven't got and never will have the skills and knack for it. I don't understand half of what it involves. It doesn't mean I can't be interested in what he does, appreciative of the fact that it's his chosen profession, thankful someone's at it because it can be stressful and demanding and laden with responsibility.

What I'm truly grateful for is that he has people who understand exactly what he's talking about if he needs to talk about it with someone, and that I have people to unload to so I don't have to dump it all at his feet and watch his gaze glaze over as I talk shop. It takes nothing away from what we have together. If anything, it adds a very important layer to the relationship, one I consider all-important, the one where we belong together, yes, but where we don't belong to one another, exist for one another, are the other's only reason to live.

Marriage, or any other serious relationship, say friendship, is such a paradox. It's supposed to be a source of joy and enjoyment. So why does it sometimes feel like so much work? Where's the fun? Wasn't it supposed to be fun and fulfilling? Here's a thought: It's all of that, too. Chances are you're not married/friends for money, security, convenience or any other particular reason other than you choose to be. You want to be.

And nothing requires more strength of will and determination than something you choose to do of your own volition. That's why marriage, and friendship, can sometimes feel like so much work. It's a choice you have to make every day. And unless you are absolutely free to make that decision, unless you have choices and you choose them above all others, you can't commit yourself heart, body and soul.

Told you. A paradox. Sorry if I lost you. My intentions are, as always, good; doubly so on a Frisky Friday. Feel free to comment, dissent, nod in agreement. Just promise you'll think about it, and that you won't be too upset with me if I don't immediately get back to you, because tonight yours truly madly deeply and partners in crime will burn this town.

To whom it may concern

2011-11-10T07:53:00.000+01:00

[Promised myself I wouldn't dip my pen in this ink again, but the things I've been seeing and reading lately...damn.]

No one pays me to write. I write a story, submit the story, and if I get an offer for the story it's published. Or something happens on the way to heaven and it isn't. If and only if the story is published, I get a shot at making a part of my living writing.

My royalty check is equally proportional to how my book does. So it is with many authors. Every cent I don't make writing is a cent I go in search of somewhere else. Not that bad a deal when you like what you do. Not that sweet a deal when you dream of writing for a living, when the less you make writing the less you write and do something else instead.

The myth of the starving artist is a myth about artists starving. Bills to pay, mouths to feed, just like everybody else. I've gone without sustenance while writing. Because I forgot. Lost myself in it and simply forgot. That hunger I know, the satisfaction this craft brings. But no trade comes without frustrations and challenges and there are people out there making this one harder than I ever believed possible.

Piracy is not a big problem in digital publishing, it's huge. So if you're downloading or uploading thinking it's just me, just this once, just one, no harm done... Did you check the counter? With downloads by the dozens, hundreds, even thousands? Many writers do. They see what's going on, cry in the shower and resent you for it. Pick themselves up, fight back wondering if it's a losing battle, have another round in the shower and resent you even more. This is the demoralizing reality of those cooking up your favorite fantasies; something so prevalent everyone's sincerity is coming under suspicion.

I don't want you to write me telling me how much you liked my book and all the while think but where did you get it. I don't want to sweat months writing and revising, writing and revising some more, only to have my book stolen the minute it comes out. No author does. That is not how I want to start out a story; with the thought they will copy the hell out of this. I don't want to stop writing, either. No compulsive wordsmith does, and yet some are forced to cut back. Some never seem to get it off the ground. Mouths to feed, bills to pay, you know the drill.

What's it to you? Well, what if it were your favorite author down for the count? Hold your breath and hope for the best? You really want to take it that far? Really really? What if they switch to some other stuff they're good at? Some other craft you don't give a flying fig about? Are you prepared to hand them over to people who will never love them and appreciate them and understand them the way you do? What if you never find another author who understands you, life, the universe and everything the way they did?

I know many multitalented authors. They could have been a great many things, and what do they choose to do, the fools? They write. For reasons most can't explain and many refuse to dissect. Because that is what they love doing, what they'd rather do above all things. I for one don't want to lose a single one of my favorites so do us both a favor and don't encourage them, okay? Don't give them reasons, excuses or ideas. They're brilliant, yes. They're also highly impulsive and extremely impressionable. Give them the impression there's no future in writing and some will run.

I want to trust you. I want to write. I want to believe it doesn't have to be this way, that illegalities don't have to be accepted as part and parcel of digital publishing. Free reads are free reads, free content is free content. I get that. Books and content with a price tag are not free no matter how you come by them and you know that. You know what you're doing. What you don't seem to realize is how much deeper than an author's pocket the hurt and the harm goes.

Oh but you had no idea? You don't want to die a pitiful putz, do you? Of course not. You want to make sense of those questions, those objections, those buts burning within you. May I suggest you take a look at Shiloh Walker's rather comprehensive Q&A sure to put out the fire?

Long story short: No author, no book. End of story.

Not a dry eye in the house

2011-11-05T20:56:00.000+01:00

It's that time of the year again, dearest denizens. The 5th of November. Bonfire night.

You know what that means. It's V for Vendetta night. Try making it through Valerie's letter without crying, I dare you.

Say it with a kiss

2011-11-04T14:15:00.000+01:00

Osculation, "the anatomical juxtaposition of two orbicularis oris muscles in a state of contraction,"* smooching, snogging, the prelude, interlude and postlude of platonic, romantic and erotic encounters alike. Kissing. You can't write a romance novel without some, and it's impossible to imagine a romantic relationship, any close relationship really, without any.

I wonder what fool it was that first invented kissing.
~Jonathan Swift

Well, Jonathan, since you asked, Mother Nature. Kissing may well have evolved from the mouth-to-mouth feeding practices of primate mothers who chewed food for their young. Or/and Mother Nature saw it fit for the process of mate selection, because as philematologists** will tell you, a kiss is not just a kiss. It's a complex, multi-sensory exchange of information by way of taste, smell, touch and pheromones. You are not aware of it while at it, but you're in fact tonsil-deep in exploration for clues not only into another person's genetic makeup but the current status and future of your relationship.

A man's kiss is his signature.
~Mae West

Biologist Claus Wedekind found that the more different a man's genetic code immune system is from a woman's, the more attractive, or unatractive, she will find him. How do women detect those proteins? Via a man's scent and taste. Which explains the inexplicable, i.e. why some people turn you off the minute you kiss them. Fifty-nine percent of men and 66 percent of women say they have ended a budding relationship because of a bad kiss.***

Before I take out all the romance out of something very romantic, kissing is more than nature's reproductive litmus test. The messages it carries to your brain evoke an euphoric response you can feel from head to toe. Dopamin, serotonin and oxytocin all rush through you, raising your heart rate, dilating your blood vessels, sharpening the senses and your desire, elevating your mood and making you borderline obssessively focused on and attached to your partner. It's not only lust that kissing propagates, it's love.

Kissing is a means of getting two people so close together that they can't see anything wrong with each other.
~Rene Yasenek

Kissing is a good indicator of how your relationship is doing. Says evolutionary psychologist Gordon Gallup: "In an established relationship, the frequency of kissing is a good barometer as to its status. If it's no longer featured prominently or is entirely absent, there's a much higher probability that the relationship is in trouble." Kissing is an act of flirtation and foreplay, it's an expression of caring and tenderness, it conveys love and desire. It can be soft, slow, long and tentative, it can be hard, take-charge, deep and urgent. You won't remember each and every one, but you will remember the first one. And when there are none to be had, they are sorely missed.

So. Sex drive (ruled by testosterone), romantic love (ruled by dopamine) and attachment (involving bonding chemicals like oxytocin). Anthropologist Helen Fisher says kissing evolved to fulfill all of these three needs. Customs, styles and techniques abound, but the need to kiss appears universal. More than 90 percent of known cultures kiss romantically. It brings lovers closer together, it inspires artists, it's a language that transcends time and borders.

Soul meets soul on lovers' lips.
~Percy Bysshe Shelley, Prometheus Unbound

I did save the best news for last, meaning that of course you don't have to consider science or worry about tomorrow while kissing. All you have to do is let nature take its course and enjoy the joyride. Your next week's mission, should you choose to accept it, is to kiss with a vengeance. Write a sonet with your lips on theirs. Write a symphony with your mouth all over their body. Easy on the teeth and tonsils, okay? Going straight to tonguing and thrusting can be an explosive, spontaneous encounter, but try working up to it if you can. Vary your approach, the place and your pace. Brush with your lips. Brush with your tongue. Suck gently. Suck intensely. Explore. The only limit is your imagination.

Sweet smooching!

"A kiss is one of the most potent stimulants that a man or woman can indulge in...and is more intoxicating than strong wine."
~Sheikh Nefzawi, The Perfumed Garden

* Dr. Henry Gibbons
** scientists who study kissing
*** research conducted by Gordon Gallup of the University of Albany

Halloween dress down

2011-10-31T15:01:00.000+01:00

Looking to dress up this Halloween, thinking about something naughty? This is what the ladies have to choose from, just to flash a few:

If you insist on going out half-naked in this weather, you can't go wrong with these items, now available at Netpinky.

And for the gents (and decidedly not available at Netpinky):

Hmm. There's naughty and then there's naughty and there's something wrong with this picture. I think I'll keep my clothes on until I can figure out what it is. Until then, have a fun Halloween and a fantastic week, sweetie darlings!

Assume the asana*

2011-10-28T23:45:00.001+02:00

Technically, it's still Friday, so how about we strike a pose, dearest denizens, and go at it from every angle with another Frisky Friday! Ready? Assume the position.

What do you say to a guy who tells you that monogamy is beyond him, it's like eating the same meal every single day? A man who brags about the high frequency and amount of his conquests (proof he is a Great Lover, as if quantity has anything to do with quality) and that his married friends are missing out? All I could think of was he had to be really bad in bed. Of course I didn't say that to his face, but I did say something to the effect that obviously he didn't know how to cook.

You don't need a hundred cooks, you only need a hundred recipes, tried and true, for a versatile, satisfying diet. That applies to the bedroom as well as the kitchen, Casanova. But I know it's easy to fall into a rut, rotate the same few recipes because you can do it with your eyes closed/the lights out, you're in a hurry, you don't have the time or the inclination to start learning new ones.

If they're your favorite could-eat-this-and-nothing-else-for-the-rest-of-my-days recipes, go for it. Enjoy! But if you feel like trying out something new and different every once in a while but are not quite sure how, that's where cookbooks and sex manuals alike come in handy. The problem: we are spoiled for choice. So where do you go for sound but sexy advice? Which sexpert do you listen to with everything from the classics such as the Kama Sutra to specifics like The Ultimate Guide to Cunnilingus/Fellatio and The Best Illustrated and Most Innovative Step-By-Step Guide for a Pleasurable Path to Anal Sex to choose from? Where do you start?

My suggestion: start with the classics and progress to the specifics if and when you feel like it. There's a good reason the Kama Sutra ("the science of pleasure") is a classic. It's known as a sex manual, but it's more than a how-to handbook. Only a small part of its text is devoted to technique, the rest is erotic wisdom. It does give practical instructions on how to use different sexual positions to lend variety to lovemaking, but it's also about the senses and intimacy and sensuality, it deals with foreplay and seduction, and above all mutual pleasure, something lost on our loverboy from the beginning of the post, focused on satisfying his own needs as he was.

The text may be 2,000 years old but it's strikingly modern in it's treatment of and approach to the sexes, so don't write if off as so last millennium and counting. Times may have changed but the human body has not and for example the sections on genital size are very helpful if he's too large/small for you, or if she's too small/wide. (The Kama Sutra separates men into three types according to the size of their penis and women into three categories depending on the depth of their vagina.) The bad news: some unions are more satisfying than others. The good news: there are highly pleasurable ways to work around this. The Kama Sutra recommends positions for every possible union, something anyone who's ever suffered discomfort during sex can appreciate.

Depth and angle can make all the difference if you or your partner have any sort of physical limitation, say a disability or you're pregnant. If sex causes pain or discomfort of any kind, for any reason, it tends to limit the repertoire of sex positions and it forces you to get creative when having sex. Again, a manual can point you in the right direction when you search for what yields the most pleasure and the best results.

The Kama Sutra has seen many rebirths and been given countless interpretations. You're pressed to find a sex guide not inspired or influenced by it. Fast forward to modern times and Western shores...The Joy of Sex: A Gourmet Guide to Lovemaking, (are you paying attention, Mr. Lothario? gourmet guide), which you may or may not have accidentally on purpose taken down from your parents' shelves, is the modern equivalent to which many if not all subsequent volumes on the subject owe a debt.

If you're waiting for a list, I'm sorry to disappoint you but I don't have one. I meant to compile one, even started one, then realized most positions in today's manuals are variations on the basics covered in the classics, so unless you're in the market for Coitus for Contortionists (yeah, it's all fun and games until someone pulls a muscle) you're not likely to find anything revolutionary. Still, in a rut, they can be a sex life saver. You can feast on them, make a multi-course meal out of them, or have a light snack. They are also perfectly good aphrodisiacs and appetizers, sensory stimulation.

They can add variety to your routine but keep in mind that as with any large menu, you probably won't like everything on it. I encourage you to experiment all the same. Find your favorites, what you enjoy most, together, and don't worry too much if a particular position doesn't feel right or work for you. Move on. Do whatever feels good and natural. Make it up as you go.

Bon appétit! Have a sexcellent weekend. And keep thinking those sexy thoughts.

*position

Sweet dreams (are made of this)

2011-10-25T22:29:00.000+02:00

Had to wait for almost a year but it finally happened. Got a visit from my grandfather, the gentleman I lost last November. I didn't see him in the dream. We talked on the phone and he told me there was somewhere I should go. He even gave me the address, or rather the name of a street. There's no such place (I checked), not verbatim, it's just a metaphor, but for what, that's for the subconscious to know and my conscience to find out. I just think it's interesting my mind chose him to deliver the message. Still, it was good talking to him.

I've been looking forward to this because it's not the same as looking at photos or reminiscing, it just isn't and I can't explain why. But the feeling of peace after one of those dreams...it's the closest to heaven you can get on this earth, or the closest I imagine I'll ever be. It's beauty and happiness of the bittersweet kind; you wake up smiling only to realize it was just a dream. Oh well. Such is life.

Another dream is a little closer to becoming reality, I see the finish line with this latest Romantica of mine! Doesn't that just make me wanna sprint when what I need to do is pace myself, gracefully glide across that line, not head-on with my tongue hanging out, my limbs about to give and with the taste of blood in my mouth. God I miss a proper workout. My shoulder is doing better but my foot is still shot. It turned out to be worse than I initially thought but it'll heal. If this is the Universe forcing me to stay put, BICHOK, it's working. Give me a limp et hop, I'll give you a book.

But who was I kidding thinking I could ever write full-time. No one literally writes full-time, it's exhausting, as fun but as draining as a proper workout. You can only go full throttle for so long before you have to recoup and replenish. I will admit to being a bit impatient to submit this book, though. Get it over with. Not because I'm sick of it but because I can't wait to see how it goes over with my editor. Big or lead balloon, I've liked the book all along, I've enjoyed working on it. Even when it's given me grief I've wanted nothing more than to sort it out. Wish me luck, will you? Then again, what's luck got to do with it?

Sleep tight, sweetie darlings. May the plot bunnies bite.

Maybe I'm amazed

2011-10-20T13:44:00.000+02:00

Dita can't come to the blog right now. She has discovered the secret to BICHOK and it's bodily harm. She has harnessed all the restless surplus energy to polishing and submitting her latest piece of Romantica, and boy oh boy what a difference a sprained ankle and pulled shoulder makes! We wish her a less-than-speedy recovery and many mild injuries in the future!!

When asked about Frisky Friday and that SWOT analysis on sex positions/guides she'd been sketching, the answer was a terse and tight-jawed "Not. Now." We'd better leave her to it then. Who knows? Maybe she'll produce something publishable this time around. What was that? Totally unprintable and uncalled-for, is what it was. Temper, temper! Or a touchy subject, hmm? Hmm?!

Oh well. So that your sojourn wasn't a total waste of precious time, we'd like to offer you one of Miss Parker's favorite time robbers: male athletes in various stages of dress. (FYI: the clips contain sound. Some would go as far as to say music.)

Hmm. That doesn't impress us much, Señor Nadal, as lovely as it was. Most people are half the tennis player you are, maybe even less, but most people can run and take their shirts off at the same time. But. What Rafa and most of us can't do is what the talented Mr. Walters does at 0:59 and 0:57, respectively.

Now stop staring and get back to work.

Monday, Monday

2011-10-17T13:34:00.000+02:00

Temperature: a sunny 10/50 degrees

Eating: stir-fried goodies; Hubby is a wok star!

Drinking: a fruity...milky...smoothie...something.

Watching: a hundred thousand different shades of yellow, orange and brown

Listening: to nothing in particular

Reading: see below

Writing: that never-ending story; oh the story has an ending, middle and beginning, it's the writing that seems endless.

Feeling: a slight ache in my left ankle and deltoid

Sisters are doin' it for themselves

2011-10-12T09:44:00.000+02:00

After the annus horribilis that was last year, I was looking forward to an uneventful rest of the decade. (Okay, my first Romantica got published. That was pretty fantabulous.) No such luck. My brother-in-law's partner and my sister-in-law's mother were diagnosed with breast cancer this summer. One has been given a clean bill. The other, well, we'll see.

On Monday I find out that my father had a health scare over the weekend, a heart incident. My brother and sister had already given him an ass-chewing so I tried to bite my tongue, but seriously, he'd had all kinds of symptoms for three weeks (!!!). No, s e r i o u s l y , gents, what gives? And I'm sorry if this sounds like a gross generalization, chew my ass if you feel like it, but in my experience when men get sick it's either a big production over nothing or they admit they need medical attention when their heads fall off and even then they're going, "It's nothing." Death grunts. "Really, it's nothing." More death grunts. I feel for the hospital staff; he's being absolutely impossible to treat or reason with, I'm sure.

The things that have been going through my mind this week...I'm getting palpitations just thinking about it. Sweet. Baby. Jesus. We need to talk about something else. How about some smart, brave, wise, reasonable women. As you may have heard, the Nobel Peace Prize for 2011 was divided between Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Leymah Gbowee and Tawakkul Karman, "for their non-violent struggle for the safety of women and for women's rights to full participation in peace building work." The Norwegian Nobel Committee noted that "[w]e cannot achieve democracy and lasting peace in the world unless women obtain the same opportunities as men to influence developments at all levels of society."

That's what women have been trying to tell the world for a couple of centuries now. And now we have the portrait of Alfred Nobel in relief to back our demands. But seriously, it is easy to forget in the relatively free and egalitarian part of the world how disenfranchised, and I do mean stripped of both rights and dignity, many women still are. Far too many women. It is for these women, women and girls with no voice or visibility, that the three winners and prizes such as these bring hope.

Got another brave and tireless woman for you, one who's doing something to leave the world in a better shape than she found it, brought to you via The Rejectionist. La Rejectionista has cooked up a buffet of a fundraiser to help her friend Emily, a buffet bound to tease the taste buds of readers and writers alike. The first item is already up for grabs so hurry! How will you know she hasn't booked a winter vaca and this isn't one of those last-chance-to-send-your-dollar fundraisers? I'm sorry but who vacations in Nepal? Really, peeps, jeez. Give the cynic the day off and have a look at those items, alone worth the price of admission, surely!

I do love a woman, a man too, naturally, who doesn't lament the state of things but sets out to do something about them. Yes, I know, you could have been a contender, start a clinic from scratch, save the planet, it's a done deal, really, save for the fact you don't have the time or the expertise. Well, Emily does, and you can play a part. Major role, bit part, walk-on, the choice is yours.

No, serious like cancer, everything counts. As in everything. Maybe this week you'll do one daily coffee run instead of two. That pick-me-up pretzel? That's what the coffee is for. If it's not picking you up, it's either decaf and explain to me why you're having it or you're not getting enough rest. Enough said, you get my drift. When I start thinking I've got nothing to give, I give it another think and all kinds of possibilities open up. Not only are you leaving the world a better place than you found it, you're none the poorer for it. Do the math. None. You can take that to the bank.

I would like to sign off by reminding my dearest denizens duty calls me to step out of the den this weekend so no Frisky Friday this Friday. Doesn't mean you can't still have one, you know, not-so-subtle hint hint. I would also like to remind the ladies out there of the importance of monthly breast self-exams. You can find instructions on frickin' YouTube if you don't know how to do it, so there is no excuse. None. And gentlemen, please, it's the 21st century. Your dick won't fall off if you admit you don't feel one hundred percent one hundred percent of the time. Admit it. I dare you. Damn right I'm upset. I'm too young for this shit. Don't make it worse now. There's an army inside you. An axis of light and wisdom and truth and beauty. Mobilize it. Conspire for good.

Until next week, sweetie darlings. Behave.

The O factor

2011-10-07T15:02:00.000+02:00

Last week's post on vibrators got me thinking about orgasms. I must confess I feel a bit uncomfortable writing them. Not uncomfortable writing about them here, talking to you about them, but in erotic romance. I sometimes feel as if I'm perpetuating a myth. You know, that if she's not screaming and writhing as if having a seizure and if he's not going off like a New Year's rocket, no one's having fun or satisfied. I sometimes feel and fear I'm party to creating performance anxiety writing stories where most every sexual encounter ends in climax, his, hers or theirs; that I'm implying that's all there is, and that that's all there is to it.

Yes, I know. Readers are smart. I for one love reading the dream instead of reality and regularly opt for entertainment instead of education. I'm also willing to suspend a considerable amount of disbelief when it comes to fiction provided the fictional facts hold water in the context of the story world. But. I do believe we agreed at the start of Frisky Friday that it would be about fact not fiction. So. The O. Some facts I rounded up for you:

Less than a third of women reach orgasm when having sex. Three in four men always do. But:
Women have more than one nerve pathway for sensation; women have four, which in turn implies women are capable of experiencing more intense and complex orgasms than men. Furthermore, women can orgasm from not just genital but several forms of stimulation. Everything from knee to brow has been reported and recorded.
It is possible to "think off." You can orgasm without touching your body.
Male orgasm and ejaculation are not synonymous or interchangeable.
Orgasms have the same impact on the male brain as heroin does on the brain of an addict, plus activity in the male brain’s reward hub is off the charts at the point of orgasm. Meaning what? Sex can be addictive.
The more aroused a woman becomes, the more the parts of the brain responsible for processing fear and anxiety deactivate.
Orgasms activate the same part of the brain as pain. Which kind of explains those distorted O faces, doesn't it?
For women, orgasms become easier with age.
Anorgasmia (female orgasm disorder) is a condition in which women can't orgasm or have difficulty reaching climax.

Let's face it. When it's good, it's good. It's good for you, too. Orgasm is a natural high, a pain-blocker helping with everything from menstrual cramps to arthritis and alleviating symptoms of depression and anxiety. It releases muscle tension and heightens women’s sensitivity to touch. But if you've never had one and are left wondering, if orgasms are elusive for physical or psychological reasons (hormonal changes, certain medications and disorders, depression, diabetes, stress, fatigue etc.), if it affects the quality of your life or relationships, it can be more a source of sorrow than pleasure. That's why I think it's important to bust some of the myths surrounding orgasms and acknowledge that there may be an overemphasis on orgasms when talking about sex. More! Better!! Faster!!! Stronger!!!!

Sex may be a contact sport but it's not a competitive sport and I don't think orgasms should be viewed as the finish line, at least not every time. Focusing on the destination, have we forgotten to enjoy the ride? Sex can be great, it can be frickin' fantastic, even if you don't come. It doesn't have to be fireworks every single time. Firecrackers are good. They are absolutely acceptable and they can be very pleasurable and it's not an epic failure on anyone's part and I hope you agree.

Porn may have something to do with it, the confusion and delusion. Porn may even have a lot to do with it since it has given many a pleasurable, wonderful things a bad name and perpetuated some harmful myths about sexuality in general and women's sexuality in particular. But that's another topic for some other Friday.

I'd love to hear what readers think. Is the big O the sugar in your Romantica tea? Is there something in the descriptions of those climactic scenes (pun tot. int.) that bother or even irritate you, or are fireworks what you expect and let's leave the firecrackers to mainstream romance authors? In the land of a thousand pleasures, is an orgasm the epitome?

Frisky Friday takes a break next week as I take a short trip. In the meantime, enjoy the downtime. And keep thinking those sexy thoughts.

Notes in the margins

2011-10-05T12:27:00.000+02:00

So now he has three hands?

Waxing poetic.

And again.

No, seriously. Stop sucking. Now!

Makes him sound like a power tool.

What season is this again? Fix description.

In 1751? I don't think so.

What? Losing your reader here. Losing the writer, too.

Is this her pussy or a cat after a bath?

Impossible since he is still wearing pants. Are these some kind of novelty pants? X [marks the spots in need of fixing]

Hysteria!

2011-10-01T14:41:00.000+02:00

This ought to be good, I thought when I first heard about this a year ago. A romantic comedy set in Victorian England, based on fact, about the invention of the vibrator. The movie Hysteria generated quite a buzz (pun int.) when it debuted at this year's Toronto Film Festival, and frankly, the history of motorized sex aids is pretty hysterical.

In the bad old days a lady didn't enjoy sex. Let me rephrase that. A lady was not supposed to enjoy sex. Sex was for procreational not recreational purposes, the act of intercourse leading to male climax. Female pleasure was beside the point since according to general wisdom women didn't suffer from sex drive. Except they did. Women exhibiting symptoms such as nervousness, insomnia, heaviness in the abdomen and lower pelvic edema, erotic fantasies and vaginal lubrication were diagnosed with "hysteria," after the Greek word for the womb, hysteros, a condition resulting from congestion of the reproductive system.

Sounds like acute if not chronic arousal to me. The cure provided to free women from this awful blockage: orgasms, or "hysterical paroxysm" as they were called as not to imply sexual desire and release. It was just what the doctor ordered and, incidentally, administered, too. Being treated for hysteria meant getting yourself to the doctor and letting him get you off.

It was hard manual labor. So hard that physicians used everything from wind-up vibrators and midwives as masseuses to ascending douches and pneumatic equipment for assistance. You bet those poor medicine men welcomed the age of electricity with open albeit tired arms. So. Before there were electrically powered irons or vacuum cleaners, there were vibrators, or "manipulators." Before long, women didn't need to bother with doctors appointments, they could treat themselves at home. The massager was a labor-saving household appliance like any other, widely advertised in magazines such as Good Housekeeping and sold at Sears. It was a health aid not to be confused or associated with masturbation. At least not publicly.

Along came the moving pictures with pornographic movies in tow. The minute vibrators showed up in the flesh flicks of the 1930's they were given a bad name, and women wanting or using one suddenly became infamous. Vibrators practically disappeared. Until 1952, when the American Psychiatric Association declared hysteria was not a clinical condition and knocked it off the list of mental illnesses.

It would take another decade for vibrators to re-emerge. Despite the sexual revolution, reservations, guilt and the stigma of sin and mental disease lingered, and most women wouldn't set foot in a sex shop. Vibrators were something men gave as naughty gifts to their partners and the designs of the decade reflect what men thought women wanted: the bigger the better.

It would take a few decades more for the "delightful companion" to establish itself as the fun and safe way to satisfy yourself and your partner, and another invention, the Internet, for the female market for vibrators to explode. The monster phalluses are still out there, but so is a wide array of other pleasurable paraphernalia women can browse at will and shop discreetly, if they so wish, online.

So whoever did invent the Internet, thank you. Thank you, Betty Dodson. And thank you, weak-wristed doctors of the 1880's. We sure are glad to be rid of the disease, and elated the treatment survived the cure.

For a glimpse at some forty vintage vibrators, visit the Science Museum in London. For some personal or mutual pleasure, visit your local sex shop or one of the many adult toy stores to be found on the Internet. Some suggestions from around the world and the www:

Adam & Eve
Babeland
Canadian Sex Toys
Discreet-Romance
EdenFantasys
Liberator
Lovehoney
Love Shack Canada
MasalaToys
Matildas
MyPleasure
SexShop365
Sex Toys
Wild Secrets

I'm not affiliated with any of these companies, I'm only here to help. Until next week, dearest denizens! Keep buzzing, and keep thinking sexy thoughts.

Wow

2011-09-30T12:04:00.000+02:00

I just lost today's blog post. The whole post. Wow. A whole morning's worth of writing. I was working on the draft I had saved (in Blogger), I was going to add some links at the end of my post, and managed to delete the whole post, and before I could go back to the draft, Blogger kindly saved the changes for me, i.e. the blank page, which is all I have left of today's blog post on the invention of the vibrator. The title and a blank page. Wow.

I'm going to scream now. And then I'm going to go kill the heavy bag. Cry in the shower. Have some lunch. Take out all my notes and start over. I'm sorry your trip here was wasted. I'm an idiot. Id-i-ot. Come back tomorrow, you hear. This week's Frisky Friday just turned into a Smexy Saturday.

Love it or leave it

2011-09-27T11:40:00.000+02:00

What's that smell? Can you smell that? Does anyone else smell megamarketing? Anyone feeling like a marketing tool? Or simply a tool?

At the risk of sounding cynical, I submit to you that most everybody is selling something on Facebook. Their brand, their personality, their view of the world, their passions, something that says something about who they are and what they're all about. That's fine by me. But from the very beginning I've felt that Fb is something someone created in their own image and everybody else has to adjust their image accordingly. Fit the circumstances, make do. It's the Fb way or the highway.

Now the highway is growing in width. It's growing in reach and going places it hasn't gone before. And we're being taken along for the ride. For a ride. At least that's how many users feel like. That if it's been hard to control your privacy from the get-go, it's becoming almost impossible. Will every page you visit somehow connected to Fb soon follow, record and telegraph your every move, automatically, unless you take certain steps to prevent it from doing so? What if you forget? Forget to log out, clear cache, cookies, history? Exit browser? Switch browser? Switch computer? It makes me feel quite paranoid just thinking about it.

Will all be revealed? I don't know of a soul who would want to share every single click with the rest of the world. What's the matter? Got something to hide? Oh everyone has their guilty pleasures and morbid fascinations. And everyone has a right to privacy. And yes, some have connections, secrets and associations to safeguard. They shouldn't be public by default. My toys aren't your property even if you own the playground.

I probably got it all wrong. Misconstrued poor Mark, misunderstood the altruistic intentions, blew the marketing thing way out of proportion. But you know what I'm thinking? If it's not like that, why does it feel like that? Should innocent fun and sincere networking make you uneasy, feel like this much work, like trouble? Wanna know what else I think? I'm gonna say it anyway. That bearded German might have missed the mark every now and then but he was on to something with the reification stuff. We'll not only sell our brand on Fb. That ship has already sailed. We'll each and every one of us be a fleet marketing an armada of stuff without thinking twice about it. (I for one can't stop thinking about it). And we're gonna do it for free.

This is bad

2011-09-26T10:29:00.002+02:00

Baaad bad bad, sweetie darlings. According to a multinational study, which released just in time for World Contraception Day, unprotected sex is on the rise and access to and knowledge about contraception is going the way of...of...someone or something that doesn't give a shit about the welfare of others.

Clueless or Clued Up: your right to be informed about contraception reports that the number of youngsters having unprotected sex with a new partner has increased by 19% in Britain, 39% in the US, and a staggering 111% in France (in the last three years). Unplanned pregnancies and myths about surefire methods after the fact abound, as do abortions and STIs.

The fact that "young people are telling us they are not receiving enough sex education or the wrong type of information about sex and sexuality," (said Jennifer Woodside, spokeswoman for the International Planned Parenthood) isn't helping. "How can young people make decisions that are right for them and protect them from unwanted pregnancy and STIs, if we do not empower them and enable them to acquire the skills they need to make those choices?"

That's a very good question. I know a very poor answer. Let's tell them to stop doing it and then pretend they're not doing it. Come on. It's not what kids know that gets them into trouble, it's everything they don't.

Frisky Friday in the realm of the senses

2011-09-23T14:05:00.000+02:00

Sight, sound, smell, touch, taste. Writers know the importance of sensory details, how they make a story come to life. Detailed lovers know it, too, how sensual foreplay can make their partners come to life. (And if it takes time for you or your partner to light up, listen up.) Did you know that a woman's skin is ten times more sensitive to touch and pressure than a man's? Women are one huge erogenous zone, so your chances of hitting the spot are excellent. If it weren't for individual differences and preferences. Therein lies the problem, and a whole lot of fun.

Men are said to fall for what they see and women for what they hear. As any man who enjoys a dirty talking dame and any woman who craves visual stimulation will tell you, that's not always the case. Individual differences and preferences, remember? So let's not settle for generalizations, let's broaden the horizons, shall we? Let's explore.

Grab your partner (preferably relaxed) and some time (preferably unlimited/uninterrupted), and make an expedition of it. You don't need a navigator. You have everything you need right in front of you (that would be each other) but you have to pay attention. Your reactions are all the guidance either one of you needs, so keep those minds and senses open and go. Explore.

Where are we headed again? Intimacy. Arousal. Fun, a teasing good time. Mutual pleasure. A deeper understanding. The sensual world. Watching, tasting, touching, listening to and, yeah, even scenting out your partner. The favorite destinations: where skin is the most sensitive, most responsive to stimulation, i.e. in, on and around the genitalia, the navel, hips and pubic hairline, inner thighs, behind the knees, fingers and toes and the skin in between, the feet, the elbow crook and inner surface of forearms, shoulders, neck and underarms, breasts/chest and nipples, ears and mouth. Did I forget something? The butt and backbone region?

Of course there's no need to limit yourself to these, to what you always do, what someone told you women/men like, or what you think your partner likes because that's what you like. Get off the beaten path. Explore. Get to know the most sensitive zones and their sensitivity and you'll learn the degree of intensity to use. Some areas may require an easy touch, others respond to rougher caresses. Kiss, lick, nibble, bite. Stroke, slap, scratch, tickle, massage.

Use your tongue as you would your fingers and vice versa. Don't just use your lips, use your teeth too, but start off gently, okay? Gauge those reactions. See what your hair does to them when brushed against those sensitive zones, or a hard sharp blow of cool air, or an open-mouthed long and warm breath. Nothing much? Move on. Explore.

Accessorize. Try using a blindfold. Taking out sight is a sure way to sharpen all the other senses. Verbalize. Tell them what you're going to do. Ask them what they want you to do. Then follow through. Watch and learn. A great way to find out what your partner likes and how they like it is to watch them masturbate. Try out sex toys but don't go overboard. (As a rule, intense, rough stimulation desensitizes and you don't want to end up in a vicious cycle where you need an ever-increasing amount of stimulation to get aroused.)

Don't just wonder what this or that or the other would feel like, find out. Boldly stick that tongue or finger where those taste buds or digits haven't gone before, with your partner's consent, naturally, and ask them to return the favor, to touch you where and how you'd like to be touched. Some of your wishes may sound silly or surprising to them. Some of yours may even make them a little squeamish. But if it's not intentionally hurtful or degrading (above all else, respectfulness, okay? you're both supposed to enjoy it, right?), give it a try. Don't be a 5-year-old. Don't say you don't like something if you've never had it. Give it a try and then decide if you want more. What borderline scared you may end up thrilling you. Your former put-off may turn out to be your new turn-on.

You'll never know if you don't go. So go. Watch, listen, smell, feel, taste. Explore. Enjoy.

You have no right to remain silent

2011-09-21T09:33:00.000+02:00

Proactive International Day of Peace, sweetie darlings!

Heavy rotation

2011-09-20T12:17:00.002+02:00

Temperature: a rainy 15/59

Eating: Kerala chicken curry

Drinking: would kill for some guaraná. Not really, no. Maim?

Watching: a hedgehog on a snail hunt

Listening: to the new Coldplay singles; like really raping the replay button. Help.

Reading: Ildefonso Falcones' The Hand of Fatima

Writing: a birthday message to one of my oldest friends. She's not old; the friendship is.

Feeling: really envious of everyone attending RomantiCon

Frisky Friday, or, in the mood for love

2011-09-16T13:31:00.000+02:00

Hello hello, dearest denizens, and welcome to another episode of Frisky Friday! First a recap. So far, we've worked on a loving attitude toward both yourself and your partner. Why? Because what goes around has a tendency of coming around. Positivity is a self-fulfilling prophecy. So is negativity. Which one do you think is more constructive? How about seductive? If you're tense, if s/he's tense, if the whole atmosphere is tense, I doubt you'll be feeling very amorous at the end of the day.

And that's a shame. I believe a good relationship equals good sex and a satisfactory sex life contributes to a satisfactory relationship. Good. Satisfactory. Not perfect or outstanding or some other silly shit. Every relationship eventually hits a rough patch. But even if you feel you've lost that loving feeling, not all is lost.

Sex is a contact sport and like any athlete will tell you, warming up can make or break a performance. So. How much time do you reserve for foreplay? Thirty minutes? Fifteen? Five? What foreplay; you barely have time for sex?! Buildup, sweetie darlings, what great erotic romances and really nice sex are made of. Enjoying the ride, not just the finish line. Let's forget about the finish line for now and focus on those all-important preparations instead.

As anyone who's ever orgasmed in their sleep will tell you, sex truly is in the brain. Everyone else knows it, too. How hot and bothered you can get just thinking about it. You don't necessarily need physical stimuli, you can run on mental stimulus just fine. My point? You have time for foreplay. You have all the time you need. Don't wait until the last minute, don't wait until the main event, start warming up now! Get a week, five days, even one day of mental foreplay in there and I promise you'll be ready for sex when there's time to have some.

And we're back to attitude, how it makes all the difference. You have to decide, every day, which one you'll be: a dynamo or a torpedo? How you'll talk to your partner, look at them, touch them. I've had time to practice. I've been married for ten years. Yes, consecutively. Yes, to the same man. I've found there's a lot you can do to keep the spark alive.

It's as simple as a simple, sincere compliment. Not just asking how their day went but listening, too. A passing touch. An unexpected, well-placed kiss. An unexpected, out of place "I love you." The Look, that long, hot, heavy look. A sweet text message out of the blue. Sexting. A whispered promise in the middle of a crowd. Choosing sex over housework. The housework will still be there when you're done but your partner may be long gone on to something completely different when you're done with the lawn or laundry.

Sounds like a holistic approach? It is. It's all foreplay if you want it to be. And I'm happy to report not only does it work, it's a lot of fun. It's a continuous win-win game of two players competing not against each other but together. You can be as crazy busy as they come and still pull it off, I promise. But you have to make a conscious decision. Dynamo or torpedo? For road team or home team?

Your next week's mission, should you choose to accept it, is to work on those powers of seduction, or should I say suggestion. Reach out and touch your partner without laying a finger on them. Surprise them. Surprise yourself. Buildup, babies, buildup. Warming up until you sizzle. And then what? Let's talk about that next week. Same time, same bat-crazy channel. Until then...think sexy thoughts.

Go mess with Texas

2011-09-12T09:32:00.000+02:00

Dearest Texans, do you sometimes wonder where the money goes? An extremely topical issue in these cost-cutting, downsizing times of ours, is it not? Let me enlighten you. To make a long story short...

The Texas Department of Transportation recently tried to stop distribution of romance author Christie Craig's novel Don't Mess With Texas. A U.S. District Judge denied the request stating the trademarked slogan did not apply to book slogans. Dear Texan taxpayer, thus ruled the federal court in Austin. The TxDOT is pursuing a trademark infringement suit all the same. So. If you want to file a complaint with TxDOT, if this is not where you want the money to go, I mean, deficit and all, you can do so here.

Dearest Texas, in the immortal words of one Georgios Panayiotou, "If you're gonna do it, do it right." If this is the avenue you want to pursue, if you want to be hailed as a hero of democracy instead of hypocrisy, if you want to do right by your citizens and the almighty buck, you need to go after the countless male artists misusing your motto, immediately, retroactively, and just as relentlessly. Until you have, the work isn't done. If you can't or won't, let it go or be pegged as the most sexist state that ever made it obvious in front of a worldwide audience.

Up and at 'em! Leave no stone or pocket unturned.

Frisky Friday! We need to talk.

2011-09-09T13:38:00.000+02:00

So. You got yourself a partner in life. For life, for now, married, engaged...doesn't matter. You thought the getting part was tricky? Try holding on to one. The chase may be over but the work isn't done. Far from it.

There's a good reason fairy tales fade out at "And they lived happily ever after." The epilogue would read something like this: "And they would have humped happily ever after as well had not his bf had a meltdown, her computer crashed and the car died, their bosses gone on vacation leaving them to do all the work and the baby cried for three years straight." Let's face it, who wants overtime and dirty laundry or diapers in their picture-perfect storybook? Sexy? I think not. Reality? I'm afraid so. End of story? Hardly.

Hubby comes home from work. Without further ado: "You'd tell me if you were unhappy, right?" Well hello to you too. "I'm not unhappy." Level stares all-around. "But if you were. You'd tell me, right?" Well, yeah. "I am not unhappy." As if he's not hearing me, "But if you were, you would tell me, right?"

It turned out a colleague of his was getting a divorce. Or his wife was divorcing him because she was, and I quote, unhappy. According to the man, he had no idea. According to Hubby, the man seemed genuinely shocked, saddened and confused. I don't know them. Without knowing more and assuming the rest, it's hard to say what really happened and when. I'm going to make a bold assumption all the same. It came down to one of three things: a) he was hard of hearing, b) she never said a word, or c) a little bit of both. My second bold assumption: a little bit of both.

Miscommunication or a total lack of communication has to be the number one reason relationships fall apart. You'd think that when two people get together, the hardest part is behind you. You found each other. Now you just enjoy the ride. It can work out that way, but not indefinitely. You have to find each other, find your way to each other, time and time again, or find each other on different planets. It is a conscious, constant effort to grow together, not apart. It can be done. I promise you. You can course-correct. Always.

Everything in writing, relationships, life, boils down to words, speech, expression, delivery, communication. Everything. It's such a cliché, you say? Talk is so overrated? If it were that easy, if opening your mouth and ears was all it took, everybody would be doing it and no relationship would ever fall apart? Turns out not everybody is doing it. Because they are all talked out. Bad listeners. In denial. Busy. Afraid of what they might hear or what could come out of their mouth. My third outrageous assumption: It is just that easy. You speak, and you listen when your partner does. And you pay attention to how you put those words out there. Do I know of a better way? Let me break it to you gently. No.

Don't shoot the messenger, but people can't actually read your mind. Some are more sensitive and perceptive than others, but for the most part, we still have to resort to opening our mouths if we want to get our message out there. It's not fair to your partner, or anyone else for that matter, if they have to pry every thought and feeling out of you. No fair. Keeping them guessing is even worse. You have to volunteer your thoughts or forfeit the right to be hurt by your partner's actions and reactions or lack thereof. Because they can't hear what you're thinking. Because they can only guess at what you're feeling. And when people have to start guessing, that's when not-so-funny things start happening.

Unless you're a total misanthrope, you're courteous to, mindful of and interested in the people you interact with all day long; your boss, colleagues, friends, total strangers. Then you get home and disregard your partner. Because you're all talked out. Because you're tired. Because they're safe, they can take it. You work hard for the money, you need your me time, your hobbies and your friends. Or the end of the day is the only moment in the day when you don't have to talk about anything to anyone after a long day of talking to everyone and their brother mother sister lover. Can't you please have one area, one relationship, in your life that's not too demanding of you? Let me break it to you gently. If it's The Relationship, no.

You have to bring your head and heart home as well, not just a dog-tired body. Yes, I know, it's sometimes too much to ask, and if it's just on occasion that you can't do more than kiss each other goodnight then so be it. But if it's becoming the norm, I'd worry. If you're home and still talking to everyone on the planet except the person next to you, I'd really worry. Believe me, I know, you only want to make everyone happy, and it makes you happy too keeping in touch and saying hello and taking a break from both the job and the family scene, but take care. If you fall asleep with your laptop in your arms instead of your partner, if you fumble for your phone in the middle of having sex because you think it bleeped, you may one day be told to go fuck your gadgets and served with divorce papers the next. (True story, btw.)

You may well wake up next to a stranger one morning, look at them thinking you should probably know them, but they're just not the person they used to be. In all likelihood, they're not. But where were you when they morphed? Not paying attention to everyone except your loved one, I hope? I know. Sometimes nothing you say or do gets through. Not every relationship is salvageable but every serious relationship is worth a serious shot at saving.

You can't outsource happiness. It's not your partner's mission in life to make you happy, it's to be happy alongside you, and until you take responsibility for your actions and words, HEA is not a realistic goal. So. Your next week's mission, should you choose to accept it, is to do an inventory. Pay close attention not only to who you talk to during the week but how, especially at home. If there's not much talking going on, are the silences in your relationship comfortable or awkward? If something has been bothering you for a while, take it up with your partner. Don't start with "You (always...)," start with "I," how you're feeling, what you're thinking. Catch yourself being nippy. What's that all about? So what if you miss the latest episode of whatever one night. You'll miss your partner more when they're gone. Agree that on certain nights the only gadgets allowed in the bed are the ones you purchased and intend to use together/on each other. Okay, stopping now, that's more than one task, that's a blueprint. And the only way I know to keep the boat afloat.

Hey lady, what the heck does this have to do with sex? Have you been listening with your mouths and not your ears open, sweetie darlings? Everything! If you and your partner are not on speaking terms, chances are you're not on fucking terms, either. If all is said and done in your household, good job, enjoy! If the fairy tale has become stale, if sex is the furthest thing from your mind, let's see if we can't do something about it next Friday. Let's see if we can't get in the mood for love. I know one thing that helps. Think sexy thoughts.

If words be the food of peace

2011-09-08T09:06:00.000+02:00

Happy International Literacy Day! This year UNESCO focuses on the link between literacy and peace.

793 million adults - most of them women and girls - can neither read nor write. Part of this year's program is a conference on Women's Literacy for Inclusive and Sustainable Development organized by the E-9 Initiative, a forum for the nine countries that represent more than two-thirds of the world's illiterate adults and half of the world's out-of-school children.

Those fortunate enough to be reading this without difficulty, please read on and take a minute to acquaint yourself with another awesome initiative, Writers for Literacy. Margaret Atwood, Nadine Gordimer, and Amy Tan are only some of the authors who have contributed to The Alphabet of Hope anthology. To read their writings, click here.

Labor of love

2011-09-05T21:36:00.000+02:00

Happy Monday, sweetie darlings, and Happy Labor Day, if applicable! How's that homework coming along, hmm? Excellent. Stickers all-around, dearest denizens, keep up the good work!

See you again on Friday, if not before. Until then, here's someone whose voice I really miss, and who would have turned sixty-five today. With love, from one robust rump to another, ladies and gentlemen, rock and roll:

Frisky Friday!

2011-09-02T12:39:00.000+02:00

Reader beware: This post contains graphic language, tough questions, tentative answers, clichés reinforced (because they are true), myths busted (because they are untrue), and, for those who make it to the end, homework.

Ladies. If you had to identify your crotch from a photo-lineup, would you be able to? Yes? Maybe, but you're not sure? No, because you've had a look, thank you very much? If you answered Yes, good for you! If you said Maybe, it's time to grab a mirror. If your answer is No, it's definitely time to grab a mirror.

Oh, you've seen plenty of pussies, you say? They just didn't look anything like yours. They were all so...so photogenic, and...smooth and...glossy. Okay. May I inquire as to the whereabouts of these pussies you've inspected? They weren't tagged XXX or hardcore or something to that effect by any chance? I thought so. But what if they're the norm and you're the anomaly, you ask? That is but a subspecies, I assure you. (And you don't have to take my word for it. Ask Betty Dodson and Carlin Ross or Anna Richardson. Ask a friend. Ask around. The truth is out there.)

The common pussy (vulva vulgaris) found inside most panties should not be compared to its second cousin several times removed. The pornographic pussy is to the vulva as haute couture is to fashion. It's not a standard, it's a concept, a highly idealized concept, and not in a good way. Line them up in an identity parade and it becomes a charade. You can't tell one from the other. Where am I going with this?

Your partner is gearing up for the Sex Olympics and you're thinking The Championships Wobbledon. You're thinking vulva vulgaris and wrinkles and wobbly bits and how best to hide them and draw attention away from them, and when it's time to get busy, that's where your head's at, where you focus your energy. My point being?

Do you expect your partner to be perfect? Physically perfect? Chances are that's not what they expect, either. They're thinking how lovely you look, how much they want you, how lucky they are, not wishing you'd shed a few pounds or visit a beauty surgeon or salon because then, oh, then you'd be perfect. What do I know about it? Let me tell you all about it.

I know plenty. Like close-to-nine-pound-babies-damn-Viking-genes plenty. I didn't lose my figure. I didn't compete with Dolly Parton for the buxomest bosom. Looking at me from behind you never would have guessed I was in the family way. But when I turned, whoa, what are you having, the whole maternity ward? I had this huge pointed belly, like r e a l l y out there. And I have the stretch marks to prove it.

The scars have gradually faded but they were an angry red at first and nothing could be done to hide them in a bikini. So I stopped trying and decided to forget about them. I knew, I just knew, that if I didn't keep on keeping on, I would switch the bikinis for a burquini for good. Because I was ashamed. Self-loathing. Scarred. Scared. I didn't want that. I didn't want to be that person. I didn't want to feel that way. I wanted to wear that two-piece. And you know what happened the first time I hit the beach? Nothing. No one stared, barfed or offered their condolences. How liberating was that? It was all in my head, where the inner critic carouses with the Merchants of Discontent.

My body had changed for good, but for a good reason. I saw no reason why my self-image had to change. It's not as if those were the first scars ever. Oh no no, I have plenty to show off and take me back. My body has given me some of the most meaningful, beautiful, fantastic memories and sensations of my entire life. I can only hope so has yours. So why not pay it in kind and be kind to it. Your body is your friend. You only get one. Treat it accordingly, like a fine instrument, not like an object or machine. Certainly not like an enemy. Listen to it. Get to know it. How it works, how it reacts, what it can and can't do. Be merciful. Grateful. Forgiving.

You can decide never to go out in public half-clad, but you can't hide from your partner. And you can't hide from the MoD Squad. The Merchants of Discontent never tire, and the inner critic is loath to shut up. They will do everything in their power to hijack your brain and inject it with a sense of inadequacy. The media, popular culture, fashion...their minions are everywhere. It's up to you to fight back and put them out of commission and you can't do that just by sitting around waiting for it to happen, you have to go after those self-defeating counterproductive thoughts with a hammer and a chisel. If I knew any other way, I would dispense that wisdom now. I, personally, don't. If you're looking for a solution, salvation, you only need to look in the mirror.

And that's exactly what I want you to do. I want you to make peace with at least one insecurity you've convinced yourself you'll carry for life. Maybe you will. But why does it bother you so much? That's what I want you to look at rather than the fictional or factual blemish itself. Kick the bastard to the curb already, grinning ear to ear. Confidence is the ultimate aphrodisiac and beauty weapon. It is sexy and it's inspiring. Bottom line: You won't be comfortable with your partner looking at you, all of you, until you're comfortable looking at yourself.

Next week's mission, should you choose to accept it, is to grab a mirror, or settle in front of one, and have a look, then another, and another, until you're intimately familiar with and comfortable looking at your body. It may take more than a week. Some spend a lifetime worrying about these things. You forfeit the right to feel insecure if you don't even know what your body looks like, all of it. That's not you being insecure, that's you being silly, okay? You should, presented with say that vulva lineup, be able to say with pride and confidence: "That's me." The one and only you. And that is more than those cinematic cunts can say.

Until next week then, when we'll be talking about waking up next to a stranger. Same time, same bat-crazy channel. Think sexy thoughts.

Ready, steady...

2011-09-01T23:55:00.000+02:00

Good evening, dearest denizens, or good afternoon; or good morning, if you happen to hail from some futuristic longitude.

Just wanted to remind you to come back tomorrow for our First Ever In The History of This Blog and The Known Universe And Going For As Long As We Feel Like It Or Find Something Else To Talk About At The End Of The Week Frisky Friday!

Sketching my post, I gave myself a thousand-word maximum. I'm afraid I still managed to fit a new topic into each paragraph, as I am wont to do when there's no one to keep me in check. But seriously, I could have gone on ad nauseam, and I'd really prefer no one blew chunks on Parker premises, not when we're trying to have a conversation.

"Why don't you just write a book while you're at it," I said. "Thanks for the support," I answered. "Come to think of it, I just might." And before you start wondering, that exchange is not symptomatic of my mental health, merely a reflection of The Process, or, moments when there's nothing or no one to keep me in check.

"It could be a collaboration. Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex (But Never Thought Asking An Erotic Romance Author). Or I could do it on my own."

"So now you're the high priests and priestesses of sex?"

"No! I'm just saying."

"What?"

"That we think about these things. At least I do."

"Let's file this under 'Things to be written some other lifetime because this one ain't getting any longer,' shall we, and stick to the task at hand, which we have a chance of completing. While we're still young."

"You don't believe I could do it."

"Of course I do. It would be awesome. Sell like hotcakes. Get you Gerry Butler's private number. You'd reenact the sad and the saucy of Phantom of the Opera. 'Poor unhappy Eric'-"

"The movie makes no mention of his name."

"It doesn't? Are you sure? Anyway, your agent would be thrilled. Now you have to ask yourself, 'Do I have an agent? Have I written this book? Wasn't I in the middle of something else?'"

Ah, The Process. Good times always had by all until reality crashes the party. So. I did manage to write a fairly coherent, around-a-thousand-words post about sex and self-image. Or tried very hard to. I'll let you be the judge of how it turned out. Now, if you'll excuse me, myself and I, I'm off to sleep. Until tomorrow, sweetie darlings! Think sexy thoughts.

Win some, lose some

2011-08-31T09:42:00.001+02:00

With Digital Up 140% at B&N, Sales Rise, Loss Falls. Meanwhile, back in Greenwich...

I shall not want

2011-08-30T13:32:00.001+02:00

I have

a root cellar full of summer

firewood
pens and paper

a fresh laptop battery

stories to write

books to read

women I can call at three in the morning

a good man to sleep next to through the night

a niece on the way

children to cherish

the use of all my senses

a sense of direction

strong legs

hopes

hope

laughter in me yet

freedom and rights

responsibilities

and for these I am grateful.

Sensible shoes

2011-08-26T23:11:00.000+02:00

...day five. So far so good, dearest denizens. Had to scrub poor WIP of an entire scene but it couldn't be helped. It's not that it was bad, it was just...superfluous. So if you're writing an erotic romance of the paranormal variety starring a daredevil hero (not to be confused with Matt Murdock) and an immortal heroine (a vamp, yes, but not a vampire) and you're missing a scene, call me, I think it accidentally ended up in my book. I also found out something very interesting about my leading man, information he hadn't volunteered but has fessed up.

I'm in the process of teaching myself plotter ways. Why? To help the pantser in me write faster, more efficiently. (I thought age was supposed to bring you poise and patience. I swear maturing is munching on mine. That's why.) What else? Yes. I think it's time we had The Talk, several, actually. So I won't have another Romantica out for a while. It doesn't mean we can't still talk about sex. Let's face it, erotic romance writers spend a disproportionate amount of time thinking about it, especially when writing those climactic scenes, no pun intended. Okay, totally calculated.

It's not just a matter of what goes where at what pace courtesy of who for us. Reducing a person to their reproductive organs in action is pornography, and we'd rather our characters feel and not just fuck, think, and not just about doing it, and be proactive instead of submissive, unless it's BDSM (safe, sane and consensual!). At least that's what erotic romance is and means to me, so how about we talk about some of the things that have inspired me to write Romantica, things I often think about when writing.

I'm not an educator by profession, but anyone who's ever suffered through one of my sermons here at the den knows I can be one by inclination, so I do solemnly swear I'll do my best to keep things light and on the fun side, because I believe that sex, like life, is, for the most part, fun, sweet, intense, and enjoyable. And when it's problematic, you go in search of answers and solutions, and when there are none, you find a way to live with it. Preferably without losing your sense of humor. Let's keep it honest and true to life then, but let's sin with a grin. And no euphemisms allowed unless they're the topic of the day, okay?

My take, to be taken with a pinch of salt, as you would anything else that smells suspiciously like advice. So...if you're not sure you're comfortable talking about certain parts of the human anatomy outside a purely fictional context, you may a) have stumbled upon this blog by accident, b) not want to participate. Especially after I tell you there won't be any tests but I'm thinking some homework might be in order, and maybe a poll or two at some point. But if you are insecure about and/or uncomfortable with some parts, any part, really, of your body (and show me someone who hasn't been at some point in their life), it wouldn't hurt anything to come over and hear what I have to say on the subject because that's where I think we should start, where the enjoyment of sex, and lack thereof, stems from: your body and how you view it, treat it, think of it.

Let me get my thoughts and notes together, okay? How about we make a smexy September of it here at the den, starting a week from now? Until then, frisky Friday, sweetie darlings. Think sexy thoughts.

Always on my mind

2011-08-21T22:04:00.000+02:00

Dear Work In Progress,

It's me, Writer In Progress. I know you really hate me right now, and that makes me hate myself. I know our rendezvous have been few and far between this summer. You feel ignored. I feel as if I've been neglecting you. But I said I'd be back, that we would be together again soon, that I had every intention of finishing what I started, so you'll just have to get over your wounded pride, and I'll have to get over my guilt and shame.

Had I thought there was no hope for us, I would have told you so, months ago. Thing is, I still believe. I did then and I do now, and if you believe, as I do, that what we had has anywhere to go, we put this...not trial separation but trial by separation behind us right here and now and pick up where we left off last time we met.

I can't promise there'll never be another summer like this, but please, pleeease understand I also needed time to think things over. Not to decide if I want to do this, but how I'll go about it. And you were never far from my mind, you know that. You were always there, startling me with realizations, sneaking up on me with revelations, so if we're cool, if you believe in me as I believe in you, how about we go that last stretch? The longest miles, yes, but the most rewarding, too, I swear.

I'll treat you right. You know I will. I'll take care of you, see you get what you're due. What do you say? Tomorrow, bright and early and ready to rumble? I say it's a date.

My blueberry night

2011-08-16T21:54:00.000+02:00

Temperature: 17.5/63.5

Eating: Greek yogurt and blueberries

Drinking: no, eating

Watching: North & South (BBC, 2004)

Listening: to the theme (see above) in all its variations playing in my head

Reading: God has left the details

Writing: from a Romantica reader's POV, I'm pretty worthless at the moment, I've been informed. *sigh* What are friends for, right? Thank you, ma'am, may I have another? *groan*

Feeling: the tough love, raring to go; rar-ing, sweetie darlings

How soon is now

2011-08-08T18:12:00.000+02:00

For a lady who really likes her footwear, I'd rather not wear any. But sometimes one must, so I put on my fanciest flip-flops, and no, that is not a contradiction in terms, these are as bling as they come, and hauled Hubby and the fruits of our love and lust into town to soak up the city in the summer. Holy Moses on a motorbike! No, I didn't see Moses on a motorbike. Believe me, I'd have pictures.

What a transformation. A metamorphosis. One hardly recognized those streets. One hardly could make out the streets, they were jam-packed. The ladies were looking quite lovely and the gents mighty fine; buskers on every corner; cars vintage and voguish cruising the streets just for show; tourists from all over the world; fresh foodstuff sold and eaten in the parks and market squares.

Summer is the most inspiring and least productive time of the year here at the den; laid-back and freewheeling. But it's a Janus-faced affair, a race against clock and calendar when you do your damnedest to concentrate on concentrating in the moment, the sights and scents and sounds and sensations of summer because they will be gone soon, way too soon. It's also Christmastime spread out over some two and a half months with visitors coming and going and with our family meeting up with friends and relatives for picnics or barbecues or a day at the beach.

It's a blast, and it's another day away from the office and another night spent playing catch-up. I've learned to adjust, I've had to, to take on only projects I can live and work with with a clear conscience. That means less time for everything work-related for a few weeks, but there's no playing catch-up with the seasons. I can preserve food all summer long but I can't bottle a summer day, as lovely as that would be. And what a first world problem, making less money but still making ends meet while actually enjoying yourself, so this ain't a complaint, dearest denizens, merely an observation.

Mother Nature has been very generous this year. The warmth, or heat, coupled with the occasional thunderstorm of diluvial proportions, has helped produce a heap of tomatoes, potatoes, cucumbers, lettuces, onions, red peppers, chili peppers, and herbs galore. The raspberries are huge, there are gooseberries and blueberries aplenty, there will be plums and apples in abundance, we got out first grapes this year, and Hubby managed to grow watermelons. Watermelons, in these latitudes. [The higher the latitude, the starker and faster the effects of global warming. Wake up and come smell our citrullus lanatus arcticus if still in doubt.] I've asked for mangoes, limes and avocados while he's at it.

What I haven't stocked up on is fall/winter fashion. Look. I can look at the spring/summer collections in November. No problem. I cannot and never will grant winter apparel a glance or a thought before my fingers and toes start going numb, okay? I'll have to settle for leftovers when I finally get around to dragging my freezing tush into the stores to at least consider having a look at something, you say? See my concern. *stares at the screen, expression never changing* I solved that problem long ago. I buy items that fit my body type, coloring and personal taste whenever something suitable comes along. That means clothes that don't scream 'latest fashion' but therein lies the catch: pieces that don't scream the exact month and week I picked it up. Won't touch the latest stuff unless they're timeless enough to tempt me, meaning meeting the prerequisites mentioned above. Fitting, stylish and ageless? Sold.

Oh but I'm raring to go, my mind and notebook filled with ideas to look and dig into, questions to be answered and answers to be questioned. But we'll have to talk about those some other time. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go chop some firewood. Winter is coming.

P.S. Receivers at the ready, folks, for the Cave Chaos launch, take two, on New Dissident Radio, from 4 to 5 pm (EST).

Something to believe in

2011-08-07T23:55:00.000+02:00

Say you're channel surfing, losing your faith in the economy, science, the media, powers earthly and divine as you dive deep, deeper, into dismay. Just as you're about to give up on not only the night's programming but all of mankind, what do you see? Robert Duvall lecturing Haley Joel Osment:

"Sometimes the things that may or may not be true are the things a man needs to believe in the most. That people are basically good; that honor, courage, and virtue mean everything; that power and money, money and power mean nothing; that good always triumphs over evil; and I want you to remember this, that love...true love never dies. You remember that boy. You remember that. Doesn't matter if it's true or not. You see, a man should believe in those things, because those are the things worth believing in."

Sleep tight, sweetie darlings. See you tomorrow.

Reality killed the video star

2011-08-01T21:00:00.000+02:00

So. MTV is thirty years old. I don't recall the momentous day it launched, but I do remember MTV landing upon European shores six years later on that/this very same date, August 1. No, I don't actually recall it being the first of August, only the occasion itself. What I do remember is Sting wailing "I want my MTV" as the first song blasted, Dire Straits' Money for Nothing, and how many clothes female artists wore back then.

So what the hell happened? Last time I checked, MTV was behaving like your average thirty-year-old: aging most ungracefully by desperately hanging on to their teens and hopelessly trying to prove they're still hip and happening. I did what your average sensible thirty something does and switched to VH1 Europe, an actual music channel.

What else is old? New. What else is new? Cave Chaos, sweetie darlings, to be launched on this most memorable of dates! Yes, in an hour or so, the weekly, hour-long, live talk radio show featuring several smexy segments airs for the very first time. Your anchors: EC's own Jaid Black and Lisa Marie Gray. The topics: if it relates to female sexuality, is strictly taboo, irreverent and politically incorrect, it's bound to come up at some point.

For your weekly dose of behind-the-scenes and between-the-sheets action, visit New Dissident Radio every Monday from 4 to 5 pm EST. Happy August, dearest denizens!

Tragic kingdom

2011-07-25T12:32:00.000+02:00

And so it came to pass that the magic kingdom turned tragic. With the wave of a tragic wand, anywhere but here suddenly came near, and in that tragic moment the kingdom fell under a tragic spell.

And as the tragic numbers were counted, the tears and questions mounted. And the King searched for a magic word and the Queen for a magic touch, but the tragician had already spoken and said far too much.

And everyone could see it had worked like tragic and who could remember all of the magic, but the King and Queen, the women and men, they wanted to see that kingdom again.

You could hunt for a thousand seasons and come home without answers or reasons.

Thoughts on a Thursday, which may well be a Wednesday, it's the heat talking, so shut up

2011-07-20T14:23:00.000+02:00

Men. What do they want? No, seriously. Ellora's Cave is looking forward to hearing from you. What's your pleasure, gentlemen?

We are kind, merciful and forgiving toward others. Why is it so hard to be the same with ourselves?

Where was that white-tailed deer going? Where was I?

Corrective rape. Corrective. Rape. OMG AKA WTF.

According to the Annual Report of UN Women, the female half of humanity does sixty percent of all work and makes ten percent of the wages. Ownership is at one percent, political representation at twenty. You know what that means? We've made progress. O. M. G. [aka] W. T. F.!!!!!

Alice Munro can't be eighty. Thankfully, her stories will never age.

Furthermore, I think that if the boys of Team 6 aren't tied up at the moment, they should come rescue Princess Charlene ASAP. Thanks.

Gone, baby, gone

2011-07-04T14:00:00.000+02:00

Sorry, I'm not in. I'm out enjoying the high summer. Another hot one. Hot hot hot. Not that I mind. But I would like to invite global warming skeptics to come over and present their case to my face, which is melting, by the way.

Enjoy your July, dearest denizens!

In the cool, cool, cool of the evening

2011-06-30T22:59:00.000+02:00

Temperature: 20/68

Eating: all done, thanks

Drinking: got scrumpy?

Watching: the sun trying to set

Listening: to The Commitments OST

Reading: what I wrote today
Writing: about that old black magic called love
Feeling: sleepless in Scandinavia

Whew

2011-06-27T17:40:00.000+02:00

Easy livin'

2011-06-23T21:43:00.000+02:00

Unplugging for a long weekend with friends and family, The Weekend up here, a.k.a. Midsummer. See you next week, dearest denizens! Behave.

The man who knew too much

2011-06-21T22:02:00.000+02:00

Unless you've been living in a tree for the past decade, you've probably heard of Stieg Larsson and his Millennium trilogy. Here in Scandinavia, there is no escape. His literary and monetary legacy is an ongoing saga the local press churns out with fervor and the reading public gobbles up with morbid fascination. But did you know that before Larsson died, before he sold a gazillion books without tasting either fortune or fame, he was an investigative reporter, and a dedicated one at that?

Extremism, racism, human rights violations, the exploitation of and violence against women, honor killings. He spent his adult life researching and writing about the same topics you may have read about in his books. Think the crimes between those covers are gruesome, revolting even? Nothing compared to the things he came face-to-face in real life. Or rather, those fictional crimes are equally proportional to what people who are revolting between the ears are capable of.

So the man wrote what he knew, what troubled him, what he'd investigated and uncovered. The right-wing forces loved to hate him for it. All he wanted was to expose those leagues, to bring them to public consciousness and under scrutiny. Analytically he'd studied the birth and growth mechanism of fascism and seen signs it was happening in his own country.

He chose to take them seriously. These weren't second generation unemployed punks blaming society in general and minorities in particular for their problems. These were your next-door neighbors running for office and being elected on the basis of the fears, prejudices and empty rage of people who wanted someone to do something about the world turning too fast for them to follow.

Too much coffee and cigarettes, too much junk food and an utter absorption in his work claimed Larsson's life, not the Aryans. So he wasn't a saint, but he couldn't he bullied or bought, and he refused to back down. And how right he was, from the start, all along. Sweden, Finland, Denmark... In these very safe, open and democratic Scandinavian societies something very dangerous, myopic and fascist is brewing, something that goes against everything these nations have stood for and defended and been proud of for so long, and proud for good reason.

You know what in my mind is even scarier than these forces? It's your fellow man telling you they have no interest in politics. It doesn't concern them, move them, or influence them one bit. It's all the same to them. Like in that The Who song, the new boss is bound to be the same as the old boss. Oh yeah. Oh no. No no no. May I suggest next time you're tempted not to vote, speak up or make a stand, you take some time to do as Larsson did and listen very carefully to what is being said and who is doing the talking. The new boss might be nothing like the old boss, and the problem with political jokes is that they have a tendency of getting elected.

You can't rationalize racism. There is no justification for bigotry. Hate is hate and hate crimes are hate crimes. Words haven't lost their meaning and they certainly haven't lost their power. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise.

Alex Rising reduced on Amazon

2011-06-16T13:29:00.000+02:00

If you own a Kindle/Kindle app and still haven't read my baby because you thought it cost a pretty penny, you can now get your rocks off for a pittance! Seriously, any cheaper than this and they'll be giving Alex away for free. Check it out:

Amazon.com

Amazon.co.uk

Amazon.de

I don't know when this deal will close, so get going, get reading, and leave a tag, if you please, and tell a friend, and tell your friend to tell a friend it's a steal!

Laissez les bons temps rouler, mes amis, mes amours. Enjoy.

Aftermath

2011-06-15T11:59:00.000+02:00

Temperature: a rainy 14/52

Eating: whatever Hubby is cooking, it smells delicious

Drinking: whatever goes with that lip-smacking aroma

Watching: Kung Fu Panda 2 with the family in a few hours

Listening: to Daniela Mercury

Reading: Haroun and the Sea of Stories by Salman Rushdie (not just for kids!)

Writing: my latest bright idea, not a new one but one that's been brewing and taking its form and is finally round and ripe enough for writing

Feeling: like reporting to the dance floor

Or die trying

2011-06-08T22:54:00.000+02:00

Weighed, measured and found wanting. Romantica roadkill. Not coming to Ellora's Cave. (Must you be so theatrical, you ask? Would I be me if I weren't, I ask? And what are we talking about here, innocent bystanders ask?) The story I was asked to revise and resubmit. Not happening.

I'm so sorry, dearest denizens. Hurts like a mother bitch. Won't pretend it doesn't. Hindsight being what it is, maybe I should have given up at some point along the way. Well, I didn't. At least I tried. And you know what? I finished the book. I finished the damn book twice. How about that?

The premise was the hook, and it ended up being my downfall. It felt like a good idea (now don't they always...). Tricky but doable. And then I couldn't pull it off, not this time around. I took some calculated risks with the ms. I lost. On each and every account. My bad. I'll have to live with that. And I'll be sure to remember that next time I have a bright idea.

The comments I've gotten from friends who don't write have been along the lines of deep condolences. I put in all those hours and came out the other end of the process with nothing to show for it. They feel sorry for me, I can feel it. They can't bring themselves to say it and frankly, I don't want to hear it. It is what it is. I'll live, believe me. Silver lining: I've found new ways of how not to write Romantica. That knowledge is golden.

I'm young, life is long, this too shall pass. Even if that doesn't ring true, that's what I need to believe right now. Besides, it's too hot for me to start getting cold feet, and too beautiful out there to think ugly thoughts, and Saturday is just around the corner, and come Saturday...Carnaval! Samba!! On the streets of Helsinki!!! Yes, there will be half-naked ladies. Okay, more like two-thirds naked. No, samba is not an erotic dance. And no, I most definitely won't be posting pics, you'd just stare at my...shoes.

On Monday, it's back to the monster plan. Master plan. It's back to the master plan. I'm thinking something simple. Nothing too ambitious, nothing too contrived. Yeah, will definitely give it a try after I type The End at the end of my latest bright idea. (Yeah, right.) But, as Samuel Beckett put it: "Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order." See you around, sweetie darlings. Dance on.

Between the bird cherry and the lilac

2011-05-31T22:56:00.000+02:00

Mellan hägg och syren. According to the Swedish byword, the most beautiful, most magical time of the year falls between the blossoms of bird cherries and lilacs in full bloom. It is but a fleeting moment in the intersection of May and June, spring yielding to summer. You can feel it in the air, in the ground, all around. Summer is almost here. But not yet.

Mornings can be cool but they come with the promise of warmth. Days are temperate; never too hot, the air fresh and fragrant. In a month, heat will have driven off the crispness and dampened the smells, turned them rancid even. I don't mind the heat, dry or humid. I'm a summer gal through and through. But there is something about this threshold, this moment between the bird cherry and the lilac, that calls to me as loudly and clearly as any summertime day.

The urgency of now pulls me outdoors and takes me to the ground, quite literally. It has me digging in the dirt, planting, weeding, tending. It has me working on the porch whenever I can (laptop=pop-up office), and when the working day is done, it makes me resist going inside. Not that anyone else in the family wants to, either. Not yet.

It's hard to stay indoors unless you absolutely have to. You've waited months for this. It's here. It's finally here! Life, live. You don't want to miss a thing: the sight of bumble bees at work, the call of a stock dove, the taste of the first straws of chive, the scent of earth as it warms up, how supple it feels beneath your feet. The ground will grow hard; summer will try to dry it up. But not yet.

You don't have to travel to reach it, you don't have to budge to grasp it. All you have to do is pick a spot and open up your senses. In a few months, you'll need the memory of every sight, scent, sound and sensation. Here today, gone tomorrow. You know that. You remember that. You don't want to, not actively, but the knowledge sits there in the back of your mind. The sensory overload will turn into deprivation. But not yet.

Winter was long, and as snowy and thus overflowing with outdoor activities as it was, you can only take it in a few hours at a time; because it's not only cold, it's so very dark. In the winter, all days are nights, but now... Now the nights are days, the sun awakening in the wee hours of the morning and going to bed after you do. The progression of light will come to a halt and do a U-turn at another intersection: Midsummer. Eventually. Soon. Just not yet.

The final countdown

2011-05-25T11:57:00.000+02:00

So. Another judgment day came and went without verdict or incident. I was so relieved, dearest denizens. I had planned to impress my mother-in-law with a very nice Chenin blanc (organic! fair trade!! save the planet, have some wine!!!) that very same Saturday, and what a pity it would have been had we never gotten around to it, it was delish! [Have I told you how my mom-in-law is the greatest? She is this simply great teeny-weeny woman.]

Some might disagree about the wine, or the apocalypse. I'm not being cavalier or callous about it, oh no no no. Serious business, both the grapes and the grapes of wrath. It's the end of the world every weekend in some parts of the world. Fridays of rage, they're called. Slaying after praying. Come Saturday, it really must feel like the end of the world for some. Climate and nature acting up, economy acting up, individuals acting up; it's the end of the world Monday thru Sunday for too many.

The Code of Hammurabi is doing well some four thousand years on, give or take a century. As slow as evolution is, we still have great difficulty keeping up and evolving, don't we? It never seizes to amaze me. It's all good and well to learn to think like your opponents do. Start acting like them and, congratulations, you've invented perpetual motion, and that machine will never run out of steam. I like what Margaret Atwood has said on the subject: "An eye for an eye only leads to more blindness." Look at the world down the barrel of a gun and is it any wonder all you see is an enemy.

In other news: Windows is out the window for good here at the den. Before Finland gave the world Angry Birds, Alan Wake and text messaging, she gave humankind the gift of Linux. I promised Hubby that next time my laptop started acting up, I'd convert for good. I am a woman of my word. I am a woman of many words, some of them swear ones as I adapt and evolve. What I need of the olden days and ways is hidden inside my precious in something called a sandbox, I believe. Put that in your W7 and...well, you know the drill.

Breaking news: I'm to be an aunt again, my brother is having another baby! Awww. Since I've decided enough is enough, I'm happy my siblings are younger than moi and only getting started with the business of having babies. I get to enjoy yet another without the hassle of actually having one. Ahhh. [And have I told you how my brother is the coolest? I have never seen him angry or upset. The day I do, I will know the end is nigh.]

Stop the press. We're not off the hook quite yet. Rapture will give it another shot in October, so hurry, sweetie darlings, it's never too late to mend, you know, to make love not war, because a life wasted hating and worrying is a life wasted, is it not, and really, believe what you will, just don't sell or yell, okay, because some are more susceptible than others, and some take things far too literally and/or seriously, and that is a pity since none of us will make it out of here alive, that is one thing we can agree on, surely, so why not put a sordino on the doom and gloom and concentrate on making life livable and bearable and perhaps even enjoyable on occasion, for everyone, instead.

You have five months. Up and at it, dearest loveliest denizens. Go. Before it's too late. Go go go. And the world can't end in October, I have food that expire in 2013! My niece/nephew is due in December, for crying out loud. If I die before that, I'm going to be real pissed.

Road to nowhere

2011-05-20T09:17:00.000+02:00

How are you, sweetie darlings, on this fine day in May? Hmm? One at a time, people, please. But seriously, did I promise to shut up until I heard something regarding that submission of mine? Was I that foolish? Let's pretend for a moment I never said that, and this relates, it does it does, kinda sucks and blows too, because it took a detour, my baby did, and isn't that just the story of my stories. It's supposed to be a teeny-weeny back in a jiffy one, so here we are, once again, waiting patiently, or I am since ye three of little faith abandoned ship a while ago to go hang with the published authors. You know, the ones who offer books and not laments to read.

I can hardly blame you. When I start thinking about those detours and delays and some back office stuff I've had to deal with this fine week in May, I find myself on a fast track to a not-so-happy-place, Things Beyond Your Control (est. right about now, population one soul with half a mind to get out of Dodge). Funky town, that one, every route you take a dead end like those infinite loops by Escher. You start thinking about other signs you may have passed along the way. You thought nothing of them. Go Away. No Exit. Turn Around. No Trespassing. You're suddenly very certain that's what they said, but for some reason you decided to pay them no mind.

Before long, you start having a bad feeling about things. Before you know it, you're beating yourself up. You're beating yourself real hard with a Give Up Stick (pat. pend.) thinking do I need this, who needs this, do I want to feel like this and wouldn't it be good not to feel like this and how you wish you could stop feeling like this oh if you could only stop feeling. And you think about the relief giving up would bring along; the tidal wave of relief letting go could grant you. And how about a good hard cleansing cry, hmm, snot and all, the kind that clenches your chest and has you fighting for breath. How's that for a sweet hereafter? (Give up give up give up *whack whack whack*)

What person in their right mind wants to deal with this, voluntarily, you wonder. Some manner of crazy person, surely. Your heart doesn't hurt enough as it is, hmm? Not enough to work out, get over, deal with, hmm? Hmm? So you start thinking that maybe, for all your protests, you are a masochist after all. And you think about time, how somewhere a meter is running. Do you really have time for this? You don't have more important things to do? Good fights, more meaningful battles, places to go and people to see, things beyond and outside yourself, roads that actually and eventually lead somewhere? It's not as if anyone would notice or care if you gave up on this. (Give up give up give up *thump thump thump*)

And you look at authors smooth sailing their way into publication without glitch or delay and envy rears its hideous head. But it's not them you envy, not exactly, that would be so unfair because it's not their books you wanted to write and see published, it's your own. So what do you envy then? The process? Another dead end, my friend, in the land of Things Beyond Your Control. Pointless. Petty. It doesn't lead anywhere. Still, thoughts of how much faster and better and whatever those authors have to be blindside you at five in the morning and eleven thirty at night. You consider that, the possibility. Maybe you shouldn't, you know it's unwise, you said you never would, and still you do it because you believe you've seen signs, and maybe you're in denial. (Give up give up give up *pow pow pow*)

And then you remember what else you promised. You promised you wouldn't lose heart and you wouldn't lose your head. And so you force yourself to calm down. Calm the hell down and hold on for one more day, just to see how it goes. The world owes you nothing. It's the other way around. So you thank the universe for the love of a good man; a man who knows just what to say and when you need to hear it and who knows when he needs to shut up. And your friends... Thank you universe for those amazing solid awesome women and one very special lady in particular who called and asked if she could see me and could we talk and could she bribe me with and interest me in a movie after, an Almodóvar. And you know which one it was? Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. And when I realized, I just had to laugh, so hard, and she joined me and couldn't stop because I wouldn't and we made a scene and so what.

The disarmament summit was, I'm happy to report, a success. Because if we didn't laugh, we'd be crying, and I've seen signs that suggest that, for the time being, I'm all cried out.

Echoes, silence, patience and grace

2011-05-15T14:11:00.000+02:00

Temperature: 11 (Celsius); scorchio gone, scorchio all gone

Eating: tom kha gai soup

Drinking: lassi; that soup was hot Hot HOT

Watching: spring go green; everywhere I look, green!!

Listening: to absolutely nothing until Kate Bush's Director's Cut comes out

Reading: The Adventures of Tintin (as in each and every album) to my youngest (who intends to follow in the footsteps of one Henry Jones Jr. and is all over adventure stories right now; I'm just waiting for the child to start swearing like Captain Haddock)

Writing: just added another 1,000 words to my WIP. And whatever happened to that story I was asked to revise and resubmit? Hey lady, enough with your stupid ass life and other catastrophes, where's that book? Hey dearest denizens, keep your shirts on, it's in the Cave, okay?! You'll be the first to know. No wait. Shouldn't I be the first to know? Should you get word, please let me know. There's something wrong with that saying.

Feeling: restless, a little aggressive even, the good kind of edgy that makes for great workouts, which is exactly where I think I should head before Hubby and the karate kids descend upon me. See you soon, sweetie darlings. And if you can't be good, please promise you'll be careful.

The da Vinci mode

2011-05-09T09:33:00.001+02:00

You know whose birthday it was a few Fridays back? Oh he's been dead for almost five hundred years. A day here, a decade there, well, neither here nor there, right? If I ever got my hands on a time machine, I'd be spying on the man in a jiffy. Which could well turn out to be the longest day ever if he just sat there thinking, which is hard work, mind you. [My man gets it, he totally does. I lounge on the couch. DS snickers. "Mom's sleeping." DH: "No, she's working." Was too! That's my story and I'm sticking to it.]

And where were we? Yes. About to sit down for dinner at a friend's house, except I'm held up in the home office slash library picking someone's brain via their bookcase. And what do I see? A da Vinci. Not Brown. That Renaissance man. The Renaissance man. Leonardo, a polymath par excellence. What did he do? What didn't he do. He's like a superhero of art and science except he is real, as superhuman as his CV sounds.

This particular da Vinci looked suspiciously like a self-help book, and I'm suspicious of self-help books. Too often they're a Band-Aid for someone bleeding from the jugular; an easy fix to some complex problem. Well, by the time dinner was ready, I had helped myself to a hefty dose of da Vincian personal development principles. Ethanol emergency and friends forgotten, I was gobbling the thing like a platanna yelling, "Yeah yeah, in a minute," then muttering, "I mean, it's da Vinci," as if some of Leonardo's genius would magically leap across time and off the pages and anoint me with the balm of brilliance.

And maybe I shouldn't be so quick to judge the shiny happy people trying to make others so. After all, what do most self-help books do but recite things we know at some level but don't practice for whatever reason. (That's why they're so damn annoying, isn't it?) Full disclosure: I did snap out of it and sit down for dinner like a good girl and guest, I haven't touched the book since nor am I affiliated with the author of the book or his programs, but if your interest was piqued as mine was that night, I dug up ze deets for ya: How to Think Like Leonardo da Vinci by Michael J. Gelb.

I don't know about your corner of the world, but up here in the northernmost north April isn't the cruelest month. May certainly isn't. (November is. Says I. Need a second opinion? November is. Says I.) Spring is shaping up nicely. Everything is coming up if not roses then some sort of sprouts, and all but the most hardened souls are feeling quite rejuvenated. A brand new season, a spanking new opportunity to be born again.

What would Leo do? He would read something no one else is reading. Think something no one else is thinking. Do something no one else is stupid or brave enough to attempt. He would learn from experience and treat these uncertain times of ours as an opportunity. He would cultivate holism. Try to harmonize mind and body and hone his senses. He would do whatever it took to nurture a dispassionate view and understanding of the world while passionately embracing and experiencing it, I guess. And that, sweetie darlings, is easier said than done. Is it any wonder some reach for Elastoplast.

Bashers and orators, trash talkers and smooth operators

2011-04-28T21:51:00.000+02:00

May I have the attention of the class, please. Today's lesson: The art of speaking your mind in public.

So you are sitting in your local coffee shop unloading to your lady friend and anyone who happens to be sitting within hearing distance about what an awful, Awful!, week you've had. You're not only hating the week with a vengeance, you're loathing your life, everyone remotely connected to said miserable existence, the weather, the lucky bastard who won a gazillion euros last weekend, and how music these days is nothing but ruminated rubbish.

You find yourself one more target. Then you take it apart with more enthusiasm than finesse. I mean, they're just sitting there, practically waiting to be stomped on by you and your foul mood, and, best of all, those stupid-good-for-nothing-go-back-to-where-you-came-from-get-out-of-my-country-and-outta-my-sight foreigners don't understand a word you're saying.

Or so you think, because, let's face it, you're not thinking at all. Your frontal lobe stopped functioning some time Monday morning when the week started going sideways, and it hasn't straightened out since. Not only can they hear you, they understand you just fine. What they can't for the life of them fathom is your line of reasoning. But going from someone's appearance to a detailed account of where they are going and what they are doing with their life doesn't require reason, does it, only a foul mood and a mouth to match.

So sorry you're unhappy. Very certain I had nothing to do with it. And your mama was right. If you don't have anything nice to say, please take the drama somewhere else, we're all stocked up here at the den, m'kay? M'kay. I got my eye on you. Oh yes I do. Ears, too. Behave.

The snows of Kilimanjaro

2011-04-22T10:14:00.000+02:00

Or what is left of them, sweetie darlings.

Unless you have a Plan B or a Planet B in stock, please don't poop in our common nest, okay? Okay. Happy Earth Day. Behave.

Thus spoke Mandela

2011-04-17T23:14:00.000+02:00

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be?

One woman's puddle...

2011-04-10T21:21:00.000+02:00

...is another woman's pond. As my goddaughter kindly reminded me.

Need a paradigm shift? Consult a child.

April Fools'

2011-04-01T12:34:00.000+02:00

Temperature: 0/32

Eating: not right now, no

Drinking: I'll have what you're having

Watching: two blackbirds facing off

Listening: to Michael Monroe's Sensory Overdrive

Reading: no, writing

Writing: yes, writing

Feeling: darkest hours don't always coincide with the dead of night

To Edward Murphy, thanks for everything, Dita Parker

2011-03-25T08:11:00.000+01:00

Say you're putting your child to bed. Your bed, because he was feeling funny, and you felt sorry for the little guy, because you're his mom, and you love him to pieces, and you only want him to be comfortable and feel better.

Say you're finally ready to go to bed yourself after making sure everything is in order for the next day, and you're feeling a bit funny yourself because it's an important day, one you want to face sharp of dress and mind, you know?

Say you hear something that could be categorized funny if you didn't know what it is you're hearing, a series of serious coughing coming from your bedroom, and you know, you just know, that in five seconds you'll be knee-deep in the chili you cooked for dinner with dessert thrown in (read: up) for good measure.

Say that's what you're dealing with three past midnight and it will be three till one in the morning before the child is washed and clothed and calm enough to try to go back to sleep in his own bed, and your bed, well, you're thinking of burning it because how will you ever get it clean and smelling decent, and it will be two before you've done all you can so the whole house doesn't stink, and two thirty before you've set up camp in the living room and are calm enough to try to catch some sleep yourself, and three thirty before you start believing you'll never sleep again, and four o'clock in the morning when you realize you're totally and irrevocably fucked.

Oh well.

There isn't a thing I wouldn't do for my babies, and today...today's for you, sweetie darlings, so we could be together a little more, so let's hope that not everything that could go wrong necessarily heads in that direction, and wash your hands, and stop picking your noses, and if you don't know what it is, please don't put it in your mouth, okay? Okay. I think I smell coffee. I think I need it. I think it will be all right.

Quo vadis

2011-03-16T08:29:00.000+01:00

"What does it mean?"
"Where are you going?"
"To the movies."
"What's playing?"
"Quo vadis."
"What does it mean?"
"Where are you going?"
"To the movies."
"What's playing?"
"Quo vadis."
"What does it mean?"
"Where are you going?"
"To the movies."
"What's playing?"

Muse on that, meritorious munchkins of mine, while I take time to make time for us. So we could be together. And we should be, should we not, because we go together like salt and vinegar, runny cheeses and robust wines, like Ardbeg and a splash of water.

Until then, sweetie darlings! Behave.

Right now

2011-03-08T10:50:00.000+01:00

[We interrupt the current state of play to bring you this message.]

There is a massacre under way. Single incidents that together spell gendercide.

A baby girl is being aborted. The child is not unwanted, only the wrong sex.

A baby girl is born but not cared for or fed. Soon, she's left for dead.

A young girl switches households. She is nine. He is forty-seven. She is his wife now. His slave. His family's slave. Of not much more value than the dirt she sweeps.

A father sells his daughter to the highest bidder. They break her in. Break her will, break her body, then sell it, the only thing she owns, except she never sees the money, only a train of faces. When she has served her purpose, she disappears.

A girl is being raped. It's a punishment. It's retribution. An act of aggression. A means to secure a wife. An attempt to dispel disease.

Yet another is buried in the sand, her head pummeled to a pulp by a hundred men, a thousand. She may or may not have done something to disgrace her family but they suspect.

A young woman lives in fear of abduction, imprisonment, torture, death, because she dared open her mouth, voice a grievance, demand change. Is today the day? Will they get her in the market, in traffic, her own doorstep, while she sleeps? Every second, in fear.

A woman breathes a sigh of relief as her husband goes off to work. With a few hours of respite to look forward to but with no money and no place to go, she decides to try to make it through another day. She makes it through four more. No more.

A woman dies at eighty-seven praying to the heavens that if she has to be born again, please let her be born a man.

A deficit of one hundred million women. More women killed and girls unborn in the last fifty years than men lost in all of the wars of the twentieth century. That deficit has repercussions, effects that in some countries spell trouble for the women who have survived, who were allowed to be born. Some really wish they never had.

Today is the 100th anniversary of International Women's Day, dearest denizens. The official theme this year: "Equal access to education, training and science and technology: Pathway to decent work for women." That is a good one, a highly commendable one. Education and economic empowerment, putting girls through school and women's vocational training can make all the difference.

You may have heard of micro loans or microfinancing. There's Women's World Banking and then there's Women's Bank, which I prefer because it's not just about money, it's about skills and rights as well. Feeling galvanized? You too can support a sister and become a shareholder.

Or, if money's too tight to mention, call your mother and/or grandmother, meet up with your sister, give your daughter your undivided attention, make a date with a girlfriend, smile at a stranger. Let them know how much you love and respect and admire them. And those chicks you really really don't... Maybe today you'll refrain from any badmouthing. Your thoughts don't hurt them, only make you miserable, don't they.

And as for those important men in your life, those who rarely raise their voice against you and who would never ever raise a hand...a kiss, a hug, a compliment wouldn't hurt anything, would it. Let's face it, sweetie darlings, as Phil Collins used to sing, it's just another day for you and me in paradise.

Now go love someone and shine on.

[This concludes today's sermon.]

Truth and consequences

2011-03-07T09:14:00.000+01:00

Previously on Dita's Den:

During a weekly bout where coloring outside the lines and free speech had, at least up until the fateful date, been self-evident, creators suggested that perhaps our leading lady had taken on more roles than she could comfortably play at once.

Our protagonist waved it off with a laugh and mumbled something about why, when asked if she had ever wanted to be a florist, she could not have realized that by God yes, and meant it, heartily, honestly, an epiphany. Or that is what it sounded like to us. Then, quite clearly, "What would you have me do?" Her smile turned strained. "Perhaps one should concentrate one's efforts," we suggested. "Full throttle in one or two areas instead of second gear in all of them." Mirth and air went out the door, we kid you not. "And perhaps some should spare one the tedious biking analogies. I know what you drive. A scooter."

Pandemonium ensued, the conversation quickly deteriorating into a verbal free-for-all. Blows below the belt were exchanged, including but not limited to doubts as to the intellectual faculties of some and the taste in footwear of others. Soon after, Miss Parker was seen storming out of the building.

She likes to boast about her survival skills. We'd like to see her survive without purse or overcoat. We would also like to remind her that hers is not a solo career, and that she owes the creators an answer, Babs a tenner, and her husband an apology.

Can I play with madness

2011-03-01T14:22:00.000+01:00

It has been brought to my attention that I might not be all-powerful.

Inconceivable.

That much of what I'm trying to do may not come to pass because it's too much, too much to do in one lifetime, or at least all at once.

Inconceivable!

That I can't have it all, that I might have to choose, to concentrate efforts some.

Inconceivable!!

One lifetime. Yes, now you're getting it. Only one woman? Well, I guess... No. I'm not getting it. I'll never pass this way again and if I pass opportunities they may never sail my way again. And I hate loathe detest retreating. Admitting defeat. Surrendering. Saying no to things I really really want, things I'm good at, damn it. Things no stupid-ass pirate can touch. Things that bring home le bacon. Let up on that? Cut back?

Moi? Inconceivable!!! (Anybody else out there love The Princess Bride?)

But but but. You see, some two years ago I started a joke. Or it wasn't intended as a joke. Not at all. I started writing again after realizing that when I write, I'm at peace with myself and at home in the world, that I'm always in the right place at the right time, wherever I am. And for a rootless person, that's salvation. That is home. Every time I sit down to do it. Every time I wake up at first light to strangers talking in my head. In every word, no matter what the language, be it literary or genre fiction. Some of the stories may be escapist from a reader's point of view, but from the writer's, they're an exercise in staying grounded and keeping your head on straight.

Did I stop doing other things? Now whyever would I have done that? (Whyever is still not a word, is it...) Things I'm good at and enjoy doing, damn it, things that bring home les tranches de bacon. Of course I didn't. That would have been selfish. Reckless. Irresponsible. A waste of schooling and talent and precious time. That one lifetime. And life is so short.

Ze plot thickens. The universe decides to conspire against yours truly madly deeply. I was offered a little more of those other things to do, those sensible, income producing things that make me feel competent and sure of my myself, my skills and my future. Things that made the writing, everything I've achieved in that sector, or sectors, look like a trifle, pastime.

I said I'd have to get back to them; and thought about the joke I'd started. Or that's what it's starting to look like. And it doesn't feel right. I don't feel right about it. Not at all. All things considered, I've gotten pretty far pretty fast, methinks. That has to count for something. Mean something. I've tried to honor that to the best of my ability, but I'd be lying to you if I said I didn't want more of a good thing, that I didn't feel as if I should be doing more. Or it's nothing but a joke. A waste of schooling and talent and precious time, that one life to live, remember? Since life is short. So. Damn. Short.

The universe strikes back. They grant me time to think about it. And they offer me more money. Ego well stroked, conscience calling, restlessness rearing its hideous head, I stared at the stories I've been working on in the midst of life and death and work and play and sickness and health. And home improvement. (Spent the weekend stripping wallpaper. Four decades of it. The last layer, from the late 60's, was the toughest. I had a vision of our lot 500 years from now. The house is gone. The wallpaper is not. It stands proud and as fugly as it ever was. [Stonehenge? Prehistoric wallpaper. Oh yes.] A dirty, brownish yellow. Yellow wallpaper. Know that story? Writers see hidden life, meaning and connections everywhere. Imagine if you will what went through my head as I dueled with said décor. [Life is too damn short.])

Whatever possessed me to pick up a pen again, wherever the stories keep coming from, it satisfies something in me beyond the fiscal or the physical. It's home. It's that simple. You can't put a price on that. There is none. But (and forget what I may have said on the subject in the past) writing is by far, without contest, the most selfish act I've ever engaged in. And that, my friends, that dissonance, is no laughing matter.

I thought time was on my side. I thought wrong.

Promise to try

2011-02-18T08:19:00.000+01:00

I get angry about things, then go on and work.
~Toni Morrison

Words to live by, Ms. M.

Happy Birthday to you, ma'am. And thank you for the books, for the life that breathes and bleeds in every word.

Dear Universe

2011-02-17T09:53:00.000+01:00

Because there apparently is no end to how greedy, seedy and needy I am, I mean, answering the call of a calling and expecting to be paid for it (no end, absolutely none, told you) with (get this) money, as in actual, vulgar, bourgeois (what happened to striving and starving and suffering, gracefully and silently suffering for your art) money, *gasps of disbelief and disgust*, if you could please pulverize the pirates plundering the produce of petit moi plus plenitude, I would be eternally grateful and forever in your debt instead of forever in debt period.

May I suggest instant karma? When you have a spare moment. Don't think about it for too long, though. They think nothing of it, those little [utterly unprintable utterances].

Okay! Thank you. Enjoy your, hmmm, eternity now,

Your love slave for life,

D.

Valentine's

2011-02-14T08:54:00.000+01:00

Temperature: -21/-5.8

Snow depth: ridiculous

Drinking: hot chocolate

Eating: see above; the one I'm having makes breakfast redundant, really

Watching: over my feverish baby's sleep

Listening: to my conscience calling

Reading: things that aren't probably there into the dream I had last night

Writing: as fast as I can, he'll wake up any second now

Feeling: like The Rubber Band Girl

Purge

2011-02-10T20:56:00.000+01:00

Oi, New Yorkers! Go see this play. Right away.

Oh, and read the book. Wherever you are.

Poindexters and space cadets, improvisers and men on a mission

2011-02-07T12:09:00.000+01:00

May I have the attention of the class, please. Today's lesson: The importance of perfect timing.

So. Nature calls in the middle of your walk home from wherever you happened to be at such an unnatural hour. Do not, I repeat, do not make your presence known before the utterly unsuspecting woman you had never laid eyes on in your life prior to the moment you had to take a whiz in the wild is long gone.

For the love of all that is holy, do not jump right in front of her, even if you are all done, even if it is a hundred below and you and yours are both freezing, even if your intentions are good. She might not care. She might be inclined to take your head off, just to be on the safe side, and, let's face it, gentlemen, jumping from the bushes, headed straight at her, displays truly appalling judgment on your part, the time and your timing considered.

Your back in a bush is far preferable to your face in hers, trust me. Since that is no place or time for small talk, big words, asking for her number, a cigarette, or the time, only one thing left for you to do, really, i.e. nothing. Do. Not. Move. Should she detect you, she'll have time to decide between fight and flight, time to make sure the coast is and remains clear. Present a clear and present danger and run the risk of a can of unforeseen consequences to be opened on your person.

Do we have an understanding? I said, do we have an understanding? Excellent. Class dismissed. Behave.

Back to the future

2011-02-02T14:37:00.000+01:00

The bad news: I'm back. The good news: I still fit in my jeans, which is nice since going out in a bikini is no longer an option, and nothing short of a miracle after a carefully premeditated and conscientiously executed attempt to consume some two hundred acarajés, a bovine, all the seafood and desserts you could name and some you have never heard of, all washed down with guaraná, sweet coffee and some very fine cachaças. You do not want to see the contents of my suitcases. I could open a supermarket, except I wouldn't sell any of the goodies I brought back for anything, I just couldn't.

Bahia did me good. Brazil, she heals me. I'm descansada and bem passada, rested and roasted. Funny how you sometimes don't realize how badly you need a break until you give yourself permission to unplug. I did, and fully embraced living without clock or calendar, amazed at how they search you for sharp objects at the airport but what do they hand you when your unidentified fried object of an airline meal arrives: cutlery to carve up whatever and whoever looks tastier; how on some hauls you can only resentfully dream of the liquids and lotions on sale beyond the Strip Here And Then Bend Over There checkpoint because they will all be taken away from you in the next said checkpoint unless you had the foresight to bring along those silly silly little containers and good luck trying to transfer anything into them when turbulence it is from start to finish (I say drop off the gentleman who lost some very expensive beverages and the lady who was forced to hand over a small spaful of stuff at Helmand because they looked and sounded pissed enough to win the war on terror in five minutes flat); how many shades of red, green and gold there are; how there's fruit and then there's fruit; how Salvador had grown but how some things never change; and how, sitting on the beach, enjoying the sand, the wind and the water, I felt like what the horizon looked like, as I hadn't felt in a long time: calm, clear, whole.

Fast forward to the present, here where the sky hangs low, the rhythm stomps instead of swaying and people sound as if they were talking backwards. Our house had taken a beating courtesy of the seasawing temperatures. A landslide of snow falling off the roof had torn off both the gutter and the downpour from the southern side of the house and a rather freakish phenomenon had killed our internet connection on the northern side. No fun at all when you have some catching up to do, news, gossip, and yeah, work, but it is what it is, it will all be sorted out eventually, everything is going to be all right.

Until then, plan B, a.k.a. Hubby's phone, which I've confiscated and hate using, damn annoying nonexistent buttons, illogical apps and programming, but as I said, it is what it is, on with the show now playing at Whipped Cream where I'm picking up where I left off and guest blogging about revisions. Hope I didn't sound too harsh. It's my personal take, based on my limited experience, of course. If it annoys you, I'm sorry. If it helps, I'm glad.

I hope the rest of the year is as good for you as the last two weeks were for me. So I don't know you. It doesn't mean I don't care. Happy Groundhog Day and Chinese New Year, Feliz Festa de Yemanjá. Happy Wednesday and forever after, my dearest, dearest denizens.

Sentimental journey

2011-01-17T09:00:00.008+01:00

Sorry, I'm not in. I'm island hopping, mango chopping, moqueqa popping, flip-flopping, shoe shopping, gostoso spotting and all around daily grind dropping in Salvador, Bahia, Brazil.

I'll have cried like a baby as we landed and I'll cry like an even bigger baby when it's time to leave, I'm sure. If they do manage to get me back on that plane, I'll be back in February. See you then, dearest, dearest, denizens!

No, that's not a picture of me. That baby turtle was born in Porto de Galinhas, Pernambuco, in January 2008. The tiny hatchlings made their way into the Atlantic with a gathering of uncharacteristically quiet homines sapientes looking on. Only one in a thousand make it back to the beach of their birth, but those that do, land in that very same sand. So maybe it is a pic of yours truly madly deeply. I may not have been born in Brazil, but right now, I'm feeling like one happy turtle, back where my life began. Ü

Sob o sol da liberdade

Liberdade em que se dança

Sob o sol da liberdade

Ainda sou criança...

Shut up and write

2011-01-13T09:35:00.001+01:00

...three days to Bra-zi-hil, three days to Bra-zi-hil, three days to Bra-zi-hil...

Yes, the glamorous life of a writer, one holiday after another. Except erasing every lingering trace of the sugar drunken debris left behind by Christmastime and New Year's et al., to say nothing of getting the house in the condition it would later be found in in the first place, was damn hard work. And my father turns 60 next week, that's why I'm taking off, and I really really really need this trip, so take it up with him, okay? Or rather with his parents for having a January baby. Bring an Ouija board.

I had hoped to resubmit the story I've been revising before leaving. How unrealistic was that? It's not as if I haven't made steady progress but if I thought sending out that submission that I had done a good job, imagine how I feel now that the ms boomeranged right back to me. Not so easy sending it out this time. If I was so sure then, how can I possibly know this round around it's done, that it's the best I can do?

The F word starts flashing in the back of one's mind. Fear. What if it isn't done but you can't see it? When it is, will you see it? You got a second chance, it's also your last. What if it's a no-go? What then? What if the sporadic sprints show? What if you can't pull it together? What if the problems aren't solved satisfactorily? What the hell do you know about anything anyway?

I believe the F word is The Great Debilitator...Debilitant? a god-awful hindrance in writing and life. I know it's a natural reaction, an in-built protector, evolutionary security software. But it takes a great deal of self-deception to be able to say you did something to protect yourself/another when you know you did it, or didn't do something, out of fear. I promise you, the things you leave undone and unsaid will haunt you worse than anything you ever do actually do or say. Only masters of self-deception make it through bypass surgery on the conscience without complications. The rest... The rest die of regret and that is just a pitiful way to go.

What if I just gave up? What if I started believing I can't do this? What if all the time not only I've already spent on but my editor has invested in the damn story as well went to waste? It would if I froze now. I shudder at the thought. I may not know much but I do know this: I want to see that story from What if to The End no matter the outcome.

So I'll keep chugging forward, one day and scene and problem at a time. F the F word; that's how I'll pry that story out of my own hands eventually. If I've come this far with everything I do know, just think how frickin' fabulous I'll be if I ever do get to write full-time. *throws head back and laughs* Mwahahahaaaa!!!

But seriously, wherever you are in your writing, I know how and what you feel. (Okay, if you're a published-many-times-over-in-all-languages-known-to-man-including-Klingon author, I have no idea how you feel. Do tell.) My sympathies, my foot-in-the-ass therapy, my two cents.

And more to come after I get back. I haven't received confirmation yet that everything went through OK, but I'm scheduled to guest blog at Whipped Cream on February 2. If something of force majeure proportions happens on the way home and I'm late for the party, talk me up, will ya? Thanks.

Smooches, sweetie darlings, or, beijos e abraços. Behave.

Twelfth night

2011-01-05T23:34:00.000+01:00

Hear that? Music to my ears, sweetie darlings, the sound of silence. That's the sound of a house and hostess all partied out. It was fun, it really was, but like all good things, it had to come to an end, and between you and me, or me, myself and I, not a day too soon. Don't get me wrong. The only reason for my radio silence was I've been practicing what I preached before the holidays. I've been one serious mom, wife, sister, daughter, daughter-in-law, aunt...

I know too much of a good thing is supposed to be wonderful, but I find it kind of exhausting, too. It's a fine line, sometimes a very short and what-no-really-only-half-a-day-gone-by-I-thought-they'd-be-heading-out-right-about-now line, between "How sweet to see you all again" and "No, you can't pee on the palm tree even if you really really have to go," you know.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed. If you need something, you can get it yourself.

Repeat offender

2010-12-22T21:26:00.000+01:00

[With profuse apologies to my dearest denizens, another season's rerun.]

I want to pass on the best cleaning tip for the holidays I've ever received: Don't bother scrubbing every corner and arranging every closet unless you intend to spend the holidays in one. Amen to that.

Fuss-free celebrations, everyone!

Be good, have fun, call on loved ones, be kind, be it mundane Monday or Christmastime, for I do believe in a certain rhyme: Love, love is a verb, love is a doing word.

Dear Santa,

If justice for all is too much to ask, please bring me a line true and pure as that, for it isn't by me, it's from that hypnotizing song by Massive Attack.

See you in 2011! Or at the end of 2010. I may have to escape to my den every once in a while to get away from all the fuss...others are making. Not me. Never me. Far be it from me.

Now go love someone and shine on. That's an order. (Be advised: Disobeying this order will result in more mushiness than your holiday-addled self could possibly stomach unless you have learned to muscle your way through the gagging reflex. You stand warned.)

A ghost from a Christmas past

2010-12-20T13:36:00.000+01:00

[With apologies from the proprietor, a season's rerun.]

I submit to you
That love and peace are verbs,
They are doing words,
Compassion is the marriage between heart and intellect,
Reason a bully when not a thing of beauty,
That being of service has been sadly mistaken for servitude,
That pessimism, loneliness and hatred are mass murderers,
We do teach our children the value of money but not the indispensability of a warm heart,
Constant instant gratification equals serial dismay,
No one is born evil, only disadvantaged,
Multitasking is looking busy while getting nothing done,
Those who choose not to believe in Santa are not eligible for gifts,
And Groucho was right: If you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does.

Utter nutter

2010-12-15T11:21:00.000+01:00

That pretty much sums up my year, dearest denizens. It's been a real roller coaster one, and I'm not talking about the junior variety. It's been more like a monster of a complete-circuit ride where the ups had me going "Made it, Ma! Top of the world!" and the downs, well, the downs simply had me screaming for her.

And I have cried, sweetie darlings, more in one year than the last ten years combined. Of immense joy and happiness, of utter sorrow and misery. I would be lying if I told you I wasn't in dire need of a breather, a chance of maybe not thinking of anything much, of not feeling twelve ways at once. No such luck in the immediate future, but there is hope on the horizon.

I have some two hundred and thirty-four things I have to wrap up before X-mas, seventy-six and a half more to see to before the 16th of January, but that 16th... That's my doughnut, dearest denizens, and everything else... The hole? And what do we focus on, hmmm? Anybody? Ze doughnut, not ze hole, yes?

I have learned some interesting things about myself during the past thirty something years. For instance, in moments of measly meltdowns, colossal catastrophes and every degree of calamity in between, I act. I don't freeze, I don't panic, I get busy, and let me tell you, that has come handy many, many times. Need to get me to do something? Bring out the cattle prod, aggravate me some and see Dita run.

So keeping my sights on that doughnut, horrendously pissed off at the driver who ran into me on Monday, smashed my door in and gave me the gift of one more thing to take care of, seriously contemplating having the car painted neon pink and purchasing a mile-long feather boa, the driving gloves and some head accessory the Mad Hatter would be proud of to accompany said glowing, glaring automobile so that no idiot ever again can claim that "I didn't see you...", and, let's face it, what woman wants to be inconspicuous to the point of invisibility, it doesn't feel like 234 and 76 plus one things to do, sweetie darlings, it's a... Junior roller coaster ride?

Aren't I the Queen of Stupid Analogies... The three of you are giving up on me now, aren't you? Before you go, do swing by my Facebook profile for some final insults to your intelligence in the form of 25 things you probably didn't need or want to know about yours truly madly deeply but Adele Dubois asked and who am I to decline such a lovely lady.

What happens on January 16th, you ask? If you're still there. If I didn't lose you when the feather boa came out. Or the whole business with the cattle prod. I usher my family out the door, leave winter apparel and worries alike behind, and board a flying machine to Salvador, Brazil, where my biggest headache will be the pool or the beach? A caipirinha or a diet Coke? Oh dear. Decisions, decisions.

Are we there yet?

2010-12-10T09:13:00.000+01:00

All human beings are born free and equal in dignity and rights. [...]

Everyone is entitled to all the rights and freedoms set forth in this Declaration, without distinction of any kind, such as race, colour, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, property, birth or other status. [...]

Everyone has the right to life, liberty and security of person.

Articles 1-3 of the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

Are we clear on this? I said, are we clear on this? G o o d. As you were. Or as you wish things would be.

Living on the edge

2010-12-08T09:44:00.000+01:00

You know when something has to be good? When the topic itself doesn't interest you one bit but the presentation is such a delight you wouldn't miss it for the world. What am I talking about? Top Gear, sweetie darlings, one of the few TV shows I try not to miss. No, seriously. It's a screwball sitcom and talk show. With va-va-voom. Brilliant! The BBC version. Accept no substitute.

I'm not enthusiastic about cars per se. It's a necessity, not a baby I nurse in the free hours I don't have anyway. I do love driving, though. One of my guilty pleasures. Coupled with all those miles spent in the skies regretting a carbon footprint the Titans would be proud of... Gu-hil-ty!

Can't help it, still love it, especially now that it's winter and I really get to drive that thing instead of just sitting there steering while taking calls, eating lunch and putting on some Gigantic Titanic Absolutely Out of This World Volume mascara. Of course I don't. I have children. But the things I've seen on the roads of this tiny speck of compressed stardust of ours... Talk about living dangerously.

It is an extreme sport going out, even for a walk, now that the Big Chill has descended upon us. Ice falling off roofs, the ever-present possibility of limbs akimbo on those slippery pavements, and people driving as if they hadn't noticed the road conditions have drastically changed. I don't care what kind of acronyms your car came equipped with, it will not drive itself and it will still act like a car. Okay? Okay.

I took a winter driving course, which is actually mandatory up here, rightly so, and highly recommendable. It clearly demonstrated in a safe environment how a car handles or rather doesn't in extreme weather conditions. There are tricks and there are secrets to keep going where you were headed if you suddenly lose traction. Still, you can't control everything, especially other drivers.

Picture little ol' me in my nifty motor vehicle approaching an intersection when along glides a 4WD, and I do mean along glides a 4WD after cutting the corner going way too fast and losing traction. It's coming right at me in as graceful pirouettes as a monster of a car can manage. With no time to back up and nowhere to go because I don't know where it'll end up, hoping it's not on top of me, I watch the guy's hands first spin like crazy then freeze and squeeze because he doesn't know either and because he doesn't know what the hell he's doing.

His car ends up spinning on its axis right before a collision that never comes with little ol' me staring at the shaken putz and the stunned fool staring right back at me before backing up and taking off as if we hadn't just been an inch of a Monster Jam all our own.

Picture little ol' me driving home, walking in, going straight for the good stuff and downing a shot with Hubby looking on then saying, "Happy to see you, hon." The feeling was, as they say, mutual.

Break it down again

2010-12-02T14:30:00.000+01:00

Here I sit, sweetie darlings, face-to-face with everything that is wrong with my writing. Luckily, if luck has anything to do with it, the story I was asked to revise had enough merit, promise and originality to it to buy me a Definitely-Maybe, which is always better than Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot-No-Way-No-How-No-Kidding.

But no story stands on creativity alone so here I am, strengthening here, simplifying there, and learning how to walk after hitting the ground running. Technique can be taught and learned, but without ideas and imagination... No, you can always feed those, too, can't you? We're optimists here at Casa Dita. Things can only get better, including you. But who was it that said that nothing will work unless you do? Maya Angelou? We know what to do then, don't we, dearest denizens? Get busy learning, improving, honing, researching... My favorite game.

All this taking apart and putting back together business got me thinking. There's no mystery to writing, just sit down and type, they say. But but but. How do you tell the fictional lies from the fabricated truth when dealing with characters and circumstances that are imaginary from first word to the last? How do we choose what we choose? Why do some details and grand schemes alike seem more true than others? No, I'm asking you because it's all a mystery to me. I make those choices with confidence, but how do I know I'm right, I have no idea...

Crash boom bang

2010-11-24T09:58:00.000+01:00

There is nothing wrong with your RSS feed. Do not try to adjust your reader. Due to circumstances beyond our control, we are experiencing transmission difficulties.

For the next few days, wait patiently as we attempt to sort out this glitch. Visit with friends and family. Have some turkey. If you can stomach it. Whichever.

We repeat: there is nothing wrong with your feed. We are partaking in matters of life and death, experiencing the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to... The Outer Limits.

So you're telling me there's a chance

2010-11-18T13:59:00.000+01:00

So. Got an answer for that submission of mine with Ellora's Cave. Revise and resubmit, it said. If you can. If you dare. No, that's not what it said but that's how it feels on first reading, like you've failed, royally. You pathetic excuse for a wannabe writer. Fluke. One-hit wonder. Not even much of a success, that first attempt, now was it, come to think of it, discounting the pirates?

Come to think of it, what are the odds? If you don't know me by now, here's the deal: I picked up writing after a long break and got an offer for the first erotic romance I ever submitted. Had to revise. Did. Got published. See the lovely gent to your right. So, been there, done that. Wrote something different this time around but will be going through the same grinder again. No promises, no guarantees, only the chance to prove I can do it. One chance and one chance only.

Can't remember who said and can't be bothered to Google that the world doesn't need another writer, or another story. Well, I think this writer needs this story. I need my work cut out for me, something so daunting I dare not lose courage, something dangled just within my reach, and the notion that maybe I'm not much of a writer after all, aren't I going to prove them any different?

This couldn't have come at a worse and it couldn't have come at a better time. She would haunt me for all eternity if I lost heart now, even if I feel it's already gone MIA. He wouldn't approve of the moping or the mourning, not for a second. He would ask, "Why the long face? Someone die?" I would nod. "Was it you?" I'd shake my head, he'd shake his and ask, "So why the long face?" He would tell me life goes on and I don't have to forget, I'd better not forget, only keep being kind, curious. Unafraid.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go bury my grandfather. Don't tell my editor. I need her to believe I can do this. I need her to believe I believe I can do this, and I do. So no long faces, no excuses, no complaints. Cheer me on, wish me well, and maybe somewhere in the not so distant future we'll be talking star-crossed lovers.

Be good. Be well. Be happy. With one hundred percent certainty, we're all gonna die. Do you know what the odds of being born are?

Lives for rent

2010-11-15T10:54:00.000+01:00

So how are those New Year's resolutions working out for you, or your goals for this year? Have you found your waist, started a savings account or emptied out the one you were watching over like Scrooge? What do you mean what do I mean, you haven't forgotten about promises made have you? Pleading ignorance, temporary insanity or one too many glasses of bubbly, are we?

It's November, high time for an inventory, don't you think? Still haven't seen that movie, read that book, learned how to play chess or brushed up on your Spanish? Will you? Ever? Of course it's not laziness, it's prioritizing, right? If you were motivated by I-want-to instead of I-must, you would have gotten down to it sometime during the last millennium. You'd like to, sure, but why do you feel you have to? Would it make your life better? Would it make you a better person? It would make you busier still but would it make you happier?

If you're thinking you haven't thought about it much because you haven't had time to think of anything lately (and I've heard too much of that these past few months), you might want to start thinking whose thoughts are you thinking then, whose choices are you making, whose life are you living anyway.

Time to say goodbye

2010-11-08T09:51:00.000+01:00

I got some sad bad news regarding my maternal grandfather, the gentleman who recently turned ninety. He has taken a turn for the worse and decided this is it, no more hospital beds and treatments that won't make him better, only delay the inevitable, and so he has stopped eating and has refused nutrient fluids. He is going as his brother did before him, taking his life in his hands, sharp of mind but tired of body.

And it will be like losing her all over again, I just know it will, I can feel it. I know I said I wouldn't bring this stuff to the den but it's just so hard to bear sometimes, walking wounded. I will go about my day and without warning be shot through the heart by a sorrow so extreme for a moment I can't breathe. I almost walked in front of a car the other day. I fear mauling someone with mine. I've started having a recurring dream where I'm being robbed. A gun in my face, a knife at my waist, The Look that means business.

I'm getting ready. I'm getting ready to lose yet something I can't replace. Nothing left unsaid, nothing left undone. That is my solace. Pain may be the price we pay for love, but it's worth every bullet. Now that the chips are down, I feel more joy than I do sorrow, gratitude more than I do anything else. I may never see them or hold them again but I will always have the moments leading to goodbye.

Good luck trying to rob me of those.

Start the revolution without me

2010-11-05T12:47:00.000+01:00

Happy Diwali and Guy Fawkes'!

And my apologies, V. I know it's supposed to be V for Vendetta night at the home movie theater but this year is not good for me, sweetie darling. Girls' night out, you see.

Oh don't give me that face. That face. The one you always do, that quirky smirk. It's not going to work, not this time, so don't even start. I promise to come home early. Real early. Around 4 am? Early enough in the morning for you? I thought so. Catch you next year then.

Cheers. Behave.

Hammer to fall

2010-11-03T08:51:00.000+01:00

How are you, sweetie darlings? Did les Américains among you join the rally to restore sanity, i.e. voted wisely? Did you enjoy the rally to restore fear, a.k.a. Halloween? And have you stopped by Ellora's Cave lately? Whyever not? And why is whyever still not a word?

Lots of exciting things going on at the webstore of my alma mater of Romantica, most notably...the ePub format! The who in the what now? Click here to find out. The November BOGO selection is out, and author Tawny Taylor's writing contest is on, no entry fee or purchase required.

Still two submission rounds to go. That means two chances left to enter and win a critique of your full manuscript/partial ms/first chapter of said ms by EC editor Grace Bradley. Additional prize: Randomly drawn entry will receive a critique by an EC author. Two more of those up for grabs as well, so if you're sitting on some erotic romance, get up, dust it off, polish if need be and send it off.

For details on what/how/where/when, visit Tawny's. You know you want to. I know you're thinking about it. Think no more. Go. Do it. Do or die.

In other news, I've resubmitted the story that took a detour when my EC editor stepped down. It's like waiting for Godot, I tells ya. Okay, not exactly, I'll get an answer eventually, but in the meantime, you bet ~~I check my inbox seven hundred times a day~~ I'm busy with business and pleasure alike. Anything "to hold the terrible silence at bay" while I wait for the verdict. In my smarty pants. No, seriously, put that play in your bucket list if you haven't seen it.

Misery loves company, so get busy with that ms of yours and join me in the waiting game. And bring Mavala Stop. I'll provide the screaming meemies.

All Saints'

2010-11-01T09:15:00.000+01:00

Temperature: 7/44.5, cloudy with a chance of sharpshooters. I'll explain some other day, okay?

Eating: Just had breakfast, thank you.

Drinking: At this hour? It's not even noon yet!

Watching: a brown hare napping under the fir.

Listening: to Hurts.

Reading: The Dictionary of Political Bullshit by Nick Webb.

Writing: A card to Hubby for his birthday, which happens to be today, which means good times ahead later in the afternoon and this evening, sweetie darlings. Wish you were here! On second thought, no; at some point things would get awkward for all parties involved.

Feeling: conflicted.

I'm a believer

2010-10-30T10:24:00.000+02:00

Sorry, I'm not in. I'm visiting with some very Nice N' Naughty authors guest blogging about writing, love at first sight, and writing about love at first sight. Yeah, the stuff much of romance is made of and the reason some aren't buying any because they're not buying it, the concept I mean.

Hah! I have evidence to the contrary, evidence which substantiates the existence of such a phenomenon. It's somewhat scientific and maybe not all that romantic but hey, whatever it takes to prove a point.

Yes, I do know it's Halloween, but as I've tried to explain, it's not that big a deal over here (quite yet...), it's been going on for the whole of October over there, and aren't you getting a little tired of it? No? Okay, carry on then and have fun, but do swing by NN'N and vote in favor of the romantics. All those opposed: What is wrong with you?

Love is in the air

2010-10-28T13:00:00.000+02:00

Because I love you and I know you love me or at least you should and if you don't what's the matter with you, a heads-up.

Come visit with the Nice N' Naughty authors this Saturday. I'll be there too with a guest blog post that has absolutely nothing to do with Halloween, promise. Or my apologies, whichever way you swing.

This Saturday. Don't forget! Yes, I know it looks a lot like Halloween weekend. Not from where I'm standing. Can't see it. No. Still not seeing it.

See you then, sweetie darlings!