Romance! It's what everyone wants to read when they're not skipping between the smutty bits with a more tangential goal. I've been taking a break from Piety in order to try my hand at it. The results have been laughable.
Browsing about on various writing forums, I have found that most writers seem to have difficulty with writing sex scenes, and the rest just flows. I seem to be afflicted with the opposite problem. What's more, I do not feel as many of them seem to, that writing smut is a more personal/revealing thing than writing any other genre.
So. Where's the love story? Where's the shmoo? The fluff? How to make it not be overwrought cliche tripe? How to do anything at all interesting with fawn-eyes and staring contests?
It's not to say that I haven't seen it done, but when I have the romance has been some side-matter in a novel dealing with so much more. Erotica seems to have romance as the main focus of the plot. I know; I've been researching. Quandry, quandry.
In other news, my rosebush became so top heavy that it fell right over. It's amazing what you can find to distract you when working on something challenging.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
For Gaz. Walking. (a smutty fanfic)
(World of Warcraft is copyrighted to Blizzard. That's all them.)
The night was a wash of darkness, the moon a token crescent in the sky. The stars were bright, but they cast little in the way of illumination to the jungle below. The torches did that. The bonfires. The lanterns. There was the sound of drumming in the distance, and the high-pitched buzz of saws that cut through the steady pounding. The saw mill never stopped, and the stench of ogres drifted here and there on the jungle breeze.
The night was a wash of darkness, the moon a token crescent in the sky. The stars were bright, but they cast little in the way of illumination to the jungle below. The torches did that. The bonfires. The lanterns. There was the sound of drumming in the distance, and the high-pitched buzz of saws that cut through the steady pounding. The saw mill never stopped, and the stench of ogres drifted here and there on the jungle breeze.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Son be a Deeeentiiiiiiist.
This week is thusfar thin on writing and does not promise to get any heavier what with the current state of agony that is the inside of my mouth. Who doesn't love paying $1,400.00+ for three hours of torture? I get to do it again next year, but then I'm through. Hopefully for a few decades more at least.
However! I do have a reading suggestion for those of you who enjoy fantasy. Even moreso for people like me who adore character-driven plots, witty narrative, and clever dialogue. The First Law trilogy by Joe Abercrombie is an absolute delight to read. Some books I take my time to savor, read a chapter here and there, and splice other books into my reading schedule because their prose is so wonderful and thick (*cough* Neil Stephenson *cough*). These books are more the sort that you want to clear a few hours of your life away in order to plop down and devour the words from cover to cover. Don't say I didn't warn you.
At least I'm going slower on the re-read.
However! I do have a reading suggestion for those of you who enjoy fantasy. Even moreso for people like me who adore character-driven plots, witty narrative, and clever dialogue. The First Law trilogy by Joe Abercrombie is an absolute delight to read. Some books I take my time to savor, read a chapter here and there, and splice other books into my reading schedule because their prose is so wonderful and thick (*cough* Neil Stephenson *cough*). These books are more the sort that you want to clear a few hours of your life away in order to plop down and devour the words from cover to cover. Don't say I didn't warn you.
At least I'm going slower on the re-read.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Take this outline and shove it.
Story is happening how it wants to. Some things are out of sequence, some things are shorter than intended, others are longer. It'll all work out in the end.
I lost my writing day today. Had it all planned out, but I had an adverse reaction to my new medication. There's nothing quite like walking down your hall only to suddenly feel like you're actually on a ship and it just pitched to the side. I've been grabbing walls and furniture between trips to the water closet, the bed, and the sofa. My cereal wound up all over the kitchen floor. I gave up half way through cleaning it up, but the puss was kind enough to lap up the milk. Life is amusing.
Swordspoint inspired me to try my hand at smut. I highly recommend it for those who have not yet read it, though it is not a particularly erotic novel. It is very witty, and very charming, and has its share of racy moments. It's by this lady here: Ellen Kushner. The Fall of the Kings and Thomas the Rhymer are also excellent works, but Swordspoint is what did me in.
I lost my writing day today. Had it all planned out, but I had an adverse reaction to my new medication. There's nothing quite like walking down your hall only to suddenly feel like you're actually on a ship and it just pitched to the side. I've been grabbing walls and furniture between trips to the water closet, the bed, and the sofa. My cereal wound up all over the kitchen floor. I gave up half way through cleaning it up, but the puss was kind enough to lap up the milk. Life is amusing.
Swordspoint inspired me to try my hand at smut. I highly recommend it for those who have not yet read it, though it is not a particularly erotic novel. It is very witty, and very charming, and has its share of racy moments. It's by this lady here: Ellen Kushner. The Fall of the Kings and Thomas the Rhymer are also excellent works, but Swordspoint is what did me in.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Repetition
I like repetition as a device. Do you like repetition as a device? I like repetition as a device.
How do you know when you've gone too far? Hmmm, hmm. It's against the "basic rules of writing." I suppose you just read it and see if it works.
Sentence fragments? Hanging clauses? Repetition? As devices?
Grade school teachers everywhere are cringing in horror.
How do you know when you've gone too far? Hmmm, hmm. It's against the "basic rules of writing." I suppose you just read it and see if it works.
Sentence fragments? Hanging clauses? Repetition? As devices?
Grade school teachers everywhere are cringing in horror.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
more Piety rough
A rough draft means it is not edited. Don't worry, I'll butcher it to hell and back when I'm done. I'm not looking for critique at this point, but if you are excessively compelled, please do so -privately-. I won't be reworking it until I've finished. All kinds of wacky things can happen when you reach the end of a story, even if you've mapped it out to the chapter.
Chapter 2 is here.
The complete file is here.
Chapter 2 is here.
The complete file is here.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Plastic (a smutty short)
The tablecloth came in three layers. The bottommost layer was a strange, fibrous fabric to ensure that it clung to the surface of the table. The middle layer was a sheet of vinyl printed with washed out daisies and sun-faded stems. The top layer was a sheaf of thick plastic, presumably to make it easy to clean. None of these was pleasant to the touch, but Jess was considering turning the damned thing over anyway. The plastic on the top had long since cracked, split, and warped. It was digging into his ass in the most uncomfortable of ways, leaving little welts and shallow cuts, rolling to press lumps into the tense stretch of his musculature.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
For Denise
The train is there, stuck on the tracks. Again. It's got us all blocked in. Boxed in. Again. Nobody cared when they laid the damn things, nobody cares now. Nobody that matters. We're just the little people in the wrong part of town. Shoved in the garage. With the trains. And the tracks.
They're shakin' it up. Rattling and rolling, with the high-whistles and the low-horns and the way the two blow loud and discordantly. The traffic is stopped. Cars just sitting there in the streets. Nobody can move. The train is there. Why? What's it waiting for? Car horns now, mixing with train whistles. It's been there for forty minutes. Just sittin'. Once a week at least.
Maybe they're experimenting. Sociological experimentation isn't that much more sophisticated, they're just better at hiding it. One day the train cars will open up, and gas will pour out, and we'll all be dead.
Except then who will tend their bars? Who will cross the tracks to clean their hotels? Who will paint the art they croon over in their lavish uptown galleries? Guess we're not lucky enough for the gas.
Fuck if I know. Fuck if I care. I just can't stand that damn whistle, or the way it makes my bones rattle when it passes. Like it's grabbed hold of my marrow and is shaking me from the inside out. I can use a good shake, you know? But from the outside in. That's all I'm saying. Forty-five minutes now, and we're still sitting here. We're sweating on bar stools, listening to horns and cursing, and watching the slow-moving ceiling fans push the cigarette smoke down.
It's the kind of shit that drives a man mad.
They're shakin' it up. Rattling and rolling, with the high-whistles and the low-horns and the way the two blow loud and discordantly. The traffic is stopped. Cars just sitting there in the streets. Nobody can move. The train is there. Why? What's it waiting for? Car horns now, mixing with train whistles. It's been there for forty minutes. Just sittin'. Once a week at least.
Maybe they're experimenting. Sociological experimentation isn't that much more sophisticated, they're just better at hiding it. One day the train cars will open up, and gas will pour out, and we'll all be dead.
Except then who will tend their bars? Who will cross the tracks to clean their hotels? Who will paint the art they croon over in their lavish uptown galleries? Guess we're not lucky enough for the gas.
Fuck if I know. Fuck if I care. I just can't stand that damn whistle, or the way it makes my bones rattle when it passes. Like it's grabbed hold of my marrow and is shaking me from the inside out. I can use a good shake, you know? But from the outside in. That's all I'm saying. Forty-five minutes now, and we're still sitting here. We're sweating on bar stools, listening to horns and cursing, and watching the slow-moving ceiling fans push the cigarette smoke down.
It's the kind of shit that drives a man mad.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Flirtations (a suggestive short)
I love you. I love you I love you I love you. No commas. No periods. On and on forever, until the words no longer make any sense. Until I've run out of breath. Until my lips are dry and cracked from mouthing the sentiment. My chest is swollen with it. Broken. Spilling and pouring.
Your hands are in your hair, and you've no idea I'm watching. I'm watching your fingers curl in and out of the black tendrils of it as it spills toward the book you're reading. Thick and heavy and old, sprawled open on a table covered in papers. Papers covered in writing. Writing from your hands. I love it for being yours.
Your hands are on your face, with their long fingers curled along the solid angling of your jaw. I watch the pad of your thumb slide past the cleft in your chin to catch on your lower lip. You're red with frustration, but I do not think that languishing over the book will provide your answers, my love. You see me watching. The green of your eyes gathers all of my attention, and I am distracted from your hands, from your thumb at the chip in your tooth. You smile, and it makes me smile, and I think it again. I love you.
You're upon me with nothing more than this exchange of glances, and of smiles. Here with the smell of leather and dirt, of hay and oats and horse. Your boots are filthy, and flakes of mud fall off on the honeyed wood of the floor. I do not mind. How could I?
You're heavy on my thighs, and I'm losing the circulation to my feet as they press into the edge of my chair, but I also do not mind this. How could I? Not with your hand pressing up against the crotch of my jeans, your thick fingers tracing out the sideways tuck of my cock. I remark that I think you like feeling it grow so fast. You remark that it started large to begin with. We laugh together, and you toss your head. You kiss me. Your mouth is warm, your lips chapped. You taste of strawberries, and there is a purr to your voice as you tell me to shut the computer.
How could I not?
Your hands are in your hair, and you've no idea I'm watching. I'm watching your fingers curl in and out of the black tendrils of it as it spills toward the book you're reading. Thick and heavy and old, sprawled open on a table covered in papers. Papers covered in writing. Writing from your hands. I love it for being yours.
Your hands are on your face, with their long fingers curled along the solid angling of your jaw. I watch the pad of your thumb slide past the cleft in your chin to catch on your lower lip. You're red with frustration, but I do not think that languishing over the book will provide your answers, my love. You see me watching. The green of your eyes gathers all of my attention, and I am distracted from your hands, from your thumb at the chip in your tooth. You smile, and it makes me smile, and I think it again. I love you.
You're upon me with nothing more than this exchange of glances, and of smiles. Here with the smell of leather and dirt, of hay and oats and horse. Your boots are filthy, and flakes of mud fall off on the honeyed wood of the floor. I do not mind. How could I?
You're heavy on my thighs, and I'm losing the circulation to my feet as they press into the edge of my chair, but I also do not mind this. How could I? Not with your hand pressing up against the crotch of my jeans, your thick fingers tracing out the sideways tuck of my cock. I remark that I think you like feeling it grow so fast. You remark that it started large to begin with. We laugh together, and you toss your head. You kiss me. Your mouth is warm, your lips chapped. You taste of strawberries, and there is a purr to your voice as you tell me to shut the computer.
How could I not?
Monday, April 5, 2010
I've moved from Livejournal.
Too. Many. Ads.
I mean, really. Why? Why? I miss the days when Brad was running the show and the server was crashing every other day. Okay maybe not the crashing part. Remember the fund raisers for more servers? Ah, good times. Bye bye LJ.
That image on my header? Done by the inconceivably talented Weissner. All rights reserved there. Don't steal shit or I will come eat your brains. On toast. With blueberry jam. Yesssss.
I mean, really. Why? Why? I miss the days when Brad was running the show and the server was crashing every other day. Okay maybe not the crashing part. Remember the fund raisers for more servers? Ah, good times. Bye bye LJ.
That image on my header? Done by the inconceivably talented Weissner. All rights reserved there. Don't steal shit or I will come eat your brains. On toast. With blueberry jam. Yesssss.
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