The problem with writing about inner turmoil is that as you deal with your emotional trauma that voice which drives you to write gets quieter and quieter
Sometimes depression yells pretty loudly, sometimes anxiety breaks through and gibbers all over the page. But that bleak dying cry from the abyss is silent. And this is better, I know it’s better. It’s just hard to reach that emotional depth. And I wonder if the wounds are really healed or if there’s just so much scar tissue that I can’t feel through it.
I feel like I cry about things which never would have touched me before. I don’t know if that’s progress or emotional honesty. I’m on a self guided journey. There are good and bad things to celebrate in that, but sometimes, you just want someone to tell you that you are doing the right thing. But who can? When you are adrift in the wilderness.
Even when you are with someone, you are alone. What else could you be, in the white noise silence. In the space of their lives and the distance between you
Fun fact about me: I was going to another room to read my book and I went to plug my phone in for charging. I wasn’t going to use it, I was going to read. But then I thought, “But what if I get a idea, how will I write it down?” So, here I am writing down a little story about needing to be able to write things down instead of reading my book. #writerslife
I have the easiest time connecting with people who read my writing. Because in my writing, with how I write, there is no place to hide. If you are afraid? Write it. Feeling something? Write it. Thinking about anything? Write it. It’s all there. Years of me. Thoughts and feelings. So people come to me past all my defenses and pretenses. And I think are probably surprised. Because all that writing is just me. Without exaggeration, but at a distance. In person it’s more. Without the intercessor of the screen or the page, how can it be helped but to be even more real?
Regarding the Valentine’s Day story
I think it is pretty common in stories of an erotic nature to present as if all parties are mind readers. And there is a bit of that in this one, mostly between a couple who have been married for years.
But I think that there is also a assumption beyond the story that a master or top just somehow knows what to do. And really what is involved is planning, forethought, and really a lot of work.
Gear, specialty clothing, and other accessories don’t just appear. Spacial planning, especially when juggling two submissives is key. In general, a submissive will see the outlines and will know, basically, what’s going on. A master will plan it all out. And will walk down a list of if/then to keep things flowing. But even a master can fool themselves. We are human and we make mistakes. And when that happens, even someone like me who likes improvisation, will be thrown for a loop.
That means we end up taking time. A submissive might then experience a extended scene where the master is not present. A game or thought experiment or deprivation. Something that gives us space to reconsider and plan.
In the story, Pel has a partner who understands his mindset and she helps him to work through the process of finding a suitable solution. Just by being there and suggesting something.
I’ve never punished a sub for a good idea. Even if that idea is we halt play for a time to refocus. And halting play when you are on tilt is smart. Especially, when considering edge play. Which is what the character, Sara, desires.
So, we see uncertainty and a master who has been on tilt and struggling to catch up for the last few installments. Because we are human, and these stories are about more than just sex or play.
On a good day, I have less to write about. Because, truly, pain and desire are the potent mixture that fuels my poetry.
But on these days of contentment, I find my mind slipping to the thought of you. Whomever, you may be. Whether I’ve met you or not. Just the thought that these are the times I want to share. The darker times I need. These are the times I want. If the difference is clear.
Today is a day in the sun. A few hours of good. I wish I could share them with you in my arms.
I’m in the midst of a writing project. I am writing a poem which I write at the end of the day. What makes it a project is the form. Which is this: each day starting February 1st I write and on day 1 it’s a single word, day 2: 2 words, day 3: 3 words. Etc. I had planned on stopping at the end of the month but I wonder if I can make it a year. I will post at the end of the month. Both the complete and the by the day. It’s interesting because it’s not just the distilled moment that I normally write in, but is instead the slow accumulation and drift of my inner voice as the days themselves pass.
So my brain finally figured out something that would scare me and not trigger one of my subconscious tripwires. Which draw me into a lucid dream should a nightmare prove too scary.
It was pretty typical weirdness. A pharaoh brought back to life, filming a movie and not being friends with the extras who didn’t want to be friends with us anyway. A house party, and a snowstorm.
Then I receive a email. A email chronicling the manipulations of the person I’m in love with. The person who (in the dream) is manipulating me. Screwing with my head just because she can. Laughing about how she got my trust. Got into my life. About how utterly foolish I am. About how she got access to my wordpress account.
About my wordpress account being scoured of content.
I rush to check it and I’m locked out. I reset my password and get in and everything is gone. The account isn’t deleted. But everything is gone. Just this barren shell of everything I’ve written and worked on for more than 3 years.
Then I forced myself awake and it was one of those times where I kept waking but not up, just into another dream. Making it particularly horrible.
Do you ever sit back and think, “Fuck. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Every time I finish a story or a project, I sit down and think about what’s next. The last project is the past. I’ll direct people to it. But in my head, it’s over and I’m thinking about what is next. And I’m freaking out. Because I don’t know what comes next. I have no idea what I’ll write. And after a year and a half of writing and recording, I am either done or I just don’t know where the story goes from here. And I honestly don’t know which scares me more. That I’m done or that I have no idea what I’m doing next.
It’s not writer’s block. I wish it was. That I can work through. It’s idea block. That’s all I need. An idea.
There’s the Pel and Sara story and a poetry compilation I want to put together. But what from there?
I read the blogs of many writers and poets. Some are such better poets and writers than I that I sometimes despair. But let’s set that aside for now.
I see that many will tag a post as personal. Something that makes sense in the abstract but something I don’t, viscerally, understand. Everything I write is personal.
From the poem that asks you to “tell me” to the Erotic Lifestyle journey of Pel and Sara, to even my audio storytelling. I suppose the closest to distance I get is in Split Sky and Torn Asunder. But even there, there are characters and situations that I draw intimately from my experience. Hard as that may be to reconcile.
Maybe that’s just me. Taking the cliche of opening up a vein and pouring it out onto the page too seriously. Or maybe it’s just the way I write characters.
Which is by constructing them from their pasts so that I know who they are and what they want, then follow the steps that they would take given those traits and imperatives. Perhaps it’s inevitable that they would be so intimately connected to me that I can’t help but be personal.
I have a hard time writing about how people look. Clothes, no problem. The look in their eyes, the way they move or smile, I got it. But their physical look? I have to sit and ponder. Really think about it. Because on a fundamental level, I don’t see their looks when I look at them. I see their personality. Or my impression of that personality based on intuitive logic if we’ve just met. I call it, somewhat pretentiously, seeing with my heart. This doesn’t mean that I don’t see the physical, just that it’s not the first thing I think about when I think of someone. So, in my writing, I have to dig fairly deep into my own head to actually come up with the look of someone. I have to build them so that I know them entire before I know what they look like.