SEX SELLS!

 relentlessly

SEX SELLS

I’ve spent the better part of a month trying to decide if I should own it or not.  It wasn’t an issue when I was writing for other people as a ghost writer, and my name wasn’t anywhere to be seen.  I even signed disclosure agreements that I wouldn’t share these other stories or that I had anything to do with writing them, but that all changed when a few smaller publishing houses signed me on to write under my current pen name.  Once again, it is all about royalties and nothing is guaranteed, and I work really hard with little to no return. 

Eventually though, eventually it will pay off, or so I’ve been told, and if nothing else, it will help me get my other works, my ‘real books’ as I like to call them, noticed, and to top it all off, they all agree that the more I have up, the more I will sell.  So, I am adding to my list of works and shooting for that magic number where it will all start to snowball.  At least that is what they are telling me I need to do. Most of what I am releasing is a one hour read and all about the sex-sex-sex!

The worst part is how fast I need to get these done, and invariably there are always errors even after reading and editing them multiple times, again, I just don’t have time to do it all by myself, but I am trying, HARD! Not slacking in the slightest, and I want to say sorry for the errors guys, it’s all too much about quantity and not so much about quality.  Although, my goal is for quality. 

So, I decided early this week, I’m owning it! I write smut! We have a nice word for it, ‘erotica,’ but let’s be honest, it’s raunchy, smutty, porn, sex, often nasty and graphic, explicit, sometimes quite obscene! Whatever you want to call it, I write it! And ya know what? I write it well, and I like writing it.  It doesn’t mean I do it, or have done it, or will ever do anything I write about, ahem, I have lived though, and I am pretty old, and well, shrug, I have no shame.  Make of that what you will.

I like the idea that I am bringing others arousal and desire! Seriously people, isn’t that like one of the best gifts to give another? It doesn’t mean I personally would ever fulfill someone’s fantasies, but shit, if I can impart it well enough to turn them on just through my words and my stories? Boo-fucking-yah! I don’t see a thing wrong with it, and apparently not everyone is capable of writing it.  So I shrug and think, works for me.

The thing with me is this, I like a good story, and I like it to be interesting even when they aren’t fucking like bunnies.  I want to get to know the characters and I tend to get quite attached to my protagonists, and even my antagonists, (which honestly are often just the inner musings of the protagonist, because we all know, who our worst enemy really is).  I still have the need to get to know them and their inner musings even when they aren’t fucking, or even when they are.  Since after all, sex is the best way to demolish any façade and shine that light on the real soul hidden inside.   

This whole thing, (ha-ha—she said hole!), has been evolving over the past few months while I struggle with the need to earn some sort of living.  I don’t need much, really, seriously, I can be content in my chair, with my laptop across my thighs, and escape into these other worlds and stories and get totally lost in the moment.  Time is speeding by.  It’s awesome! I do tend to forget that everything I am producing is going out there, available to the masses, (not really the masses though, at this point I think there are maybe twenty of you that have read something I’ve written), but still, most of you twenty actually know me, know who I am and my ‘real’ name.  Bwah! No wonder I often get odd giggles when I see a friend out in public that I haven’t see for a while. At this point, what I write hardly effects me, and I forget it’s really explicit!

My desire is still to work on the stories that are closest to my heart, my AdventuresinPayne saga and my Dormant Desires Lycanthropy series.  The problem however is that there just isn’t enough time.  So, for now I am writing this other stuff, this erotica, and honestly, as frustrating as it is to not have time for my own stuff, I still find a ton of satisfaction in helping others live out a fantasy or give them a memorable story that brings them personal pleasure. The very best side effect is that I am getting way better, faster and my execution is so much smoother than when I first started.  Yay for me! Yay for my readers.          

I am finding one thing sort of ironic, I am mostly writing for women, I write stories like fifty shades and all that lovely smut we adore to pretend our books aren’t full of.  You know, the quote-unquote paranormal romance genre.  NOT the YA genre.  Not ancient vegetarian pedophile vampires that seduce young girls, and of course they never fuck! OF COURSE they don’t! BWAH!!! Pleeese!! Enough already! I write for women, and quite a few women hate me. 

Those of you that still like me, just know I love you all dearly and you are the best friends a literary ho could ever want!

Men don’t buy this crap, its women that do, so I don’t understand where all the judgment and shame comes from, are you gals really that fucked up? Unfortunately, I’m asking the ones that won’t be reading this post, I’m just curious, that’s all. I feel like the stripper that said she did it for the money, but secretly also loves the power trip that comes from giving arousal to another.  I AM doing it for the money, but honestly, I think just doing IT, and getting paid to do IT, would, one –take way less time, and two –bring me in a butt load more money.  I averaged what I am making, and based on the time I’m spending, its right around two bucks and hour! Woo-hoo!! On the bright side, I’m paying my bills and I am kind of enjoying myself, and getting exponentially better at the craft of writing. 

The best part is that I get to stay in my jammies all day and drink coffee, and trust me, I am anything but good looking on those days, which is every day.  Nope, nothing here to see people, move along, I might write like a slut, but sure as hell can only attract a fly or two as I sit here in my old sweats with my hair up and wondering if I brushed my teeth this morning.

So girls, lest you think it’s all glitz and glamour, let me tell ya otherwise.  Men are easy to write for! Use the words, cock, cunt and tit enough times, oh and they like the words glisten and juices quite a bit too, and they are good to go. Like, that’s it! Women, oh my god, women, women, women, what is wrong with us? Thousands of words later and I we still haven’t had sex, we’ve been spanked and kissed and held and finger fucked and our nipples sucked on and good-fucking-grief, can we just get to it already? Isn’t that what we’re here for after all?

I’ve actually had one gal accuse me of trying to steal her husband, this was a couple years ago, and before I was writing all this erotic stuff, and simply because he liked a post of mine on Facebook, and we chatted back and forth, publicly, (not privately!).  I can’t even imagine what she would think of me now.  It does kind of make me laugh, and it also makes me wonder what kind of wonderful husband she has that someone would take the time, and make the effort to steal him.  Seriously? Really? Either that means she thinks I am fucking awesome and capable of the heist, or she has no faith in her husband.  Of course, it says everything about her, and nothing about me. It is funny though.

I do feel I should add some sort of disclaimer that I am not after anyone else’s husband, and especially now that I write all this raunch and erotica, I’m writing it for us girls, you know, as something to get our minds off  the barnacles in our lives, not to steal some one else’s man and hoard them all for myself. Not sure why they are all so paranoid anyway. Have you gals looked at the men you’re married too? Trust me, I don’t want them, and more than likely, if you’re reading my stuff, you kinda don’t either!

I’ve actually been celibate for well over four years because I don’t want any of them!! I have yet to meet a guy that I can both talk too, and turns me on physically.  Not that I couldn’t be persuaded, I am a girl after all, and if you talk to me and respond enough, you know carry on an adult conversation? I can overlook all the other stuff and get into it.  BUT!!! And there is a big huge BUTT, I don’t want a guy that is taken, married, partnered, roommates, I don’t care, if he belongs to you, I don’t want him, can’t see him, he doesn’t exist! I am stating this clear as day because I have a few casual girlfriends that have unfriended me as of late, and I really can’t figure out why, unless it is because of the above mentioned issue, or they are embarrassed to be my friend.  Either way, bye-bye, don’t let the door hit you on your way out.

Maybe it’s because I am always friendly and maybe it’s because I like men, I like talking to men and I like the male energy, and their perspective on things.  It’s so much easier than other women, (most other women, my girls know I don’t mean them).  Also gals, if you do read my stuff, you know what I like, and I have yet to meet the male creature that embodies these men.  I truly do not believe one exists.  If a Jacob, a Jess, a Collin, a Jamie, an Aiden, a Donovan, a Sebastian, or an Ezekiel does exist? Please come out-come out where-ever you are and I will happily bend over and let you spank me silly.  (Some of you don’t know my other hero’s mentioned above because I don’t get author credit for them, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still fall head over heels for them when I write their stories).

So, where was I? Oh yeah, SEX SELLS, I am making a decent enough living doing something I’m good at.  YAY for me. My message and continuous thread in all my work is that there should be NO SHAME!! It suffocates and extinguishes, dampens and smothers, whatever words you want to use, a life with shame, is a life without any passion at all, and for me, that is a life not worth living.  Shame kills all love too, and love can give energy and power to an otherwise powerless soul.  The worst part about it is that those that are shame based, or devoid of love, either way you look at it, it’s horrible because they feel the need to put it back onto all the others, and douse their fires, or embers, I rarely meet anyone truly on fire anymore, and in doing so, they can feel better about themselves, while killing all love and hope in the ones they are shaming. 

I know full well I am setting myself up to be judged and shamed and ridiculed.  I sigh and shrug and think, I might be pretty good at it by this point in my life,  been practicing to let it all roll right off.  Like a fucking duck people! Like a fucking duck —I’m owning it now guys, this is what I do, I like it, I’m good at it, it makes me money and I don’t have to be out in the world being shamed on a regular basis by all the normies, I know that isn’t a real word, sorry, I like to make them up when appropriate. 

In the horse world that I was once a large part of, we had ‘normal’ horse people that were still acting like predators and treating their horses like slaves, training them through punishment instead of encouragement; and then we had the natural world, the world of people who have found themselves on a journey of self-discovery simply because they want to make the relationships the most important thing.  It really has very little do to with the horses and everything to do with our own reactions to others. 

In this world where sex sells, but no-one is having it, I am still on this same journey of self-discovery, and most of the people that I like, or like my stories, are on it as well.  It’s still about self-discovery and freedom from shame put on us by others or even, sometimes ourselves, and for a lot of us, it is still entirely about the relationships, the ones with others and the ones with ourselves.  So, this is what I do, this is who I am, for now, in this moment I sell the idea of love and sex and fulfillment through physical gratification.  If you don’t like that, please move along, but don’t make yourself feel better by shaming me in the process of your departure. It only pisses me off and makes me want to steal your husband! BWAH!!!!

 ““We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” ― Anaïs Nin

Mediocre

arianredhead

Mediocre

I love that word, it says so much.  Mediocre, average, ordinary, pedestrian, unexceptional, and the list goes on.  My entire life I’ve feared being mundane, and loathed the thought that I was average, or just like everyone else.  Middle of the pack, or normal seemed an insult to me.  So, I strived and I worked hard and I pushed myself towards the areas I seemed to have aptitude.  Keeping in mind that even as a child, my only dream was to find a person that I could make my entire life, and I in return would be theirs.

I’ve always been aware I wasn’t average, I was better than average, if I applied myself I was the curve by which the others were judged.  However, and here is where it stings, I was never extraordinary or exceptional, I was just slightly above average.  This applied to my intelligence, my ability to learn, my memory, my athletic prowess, even my looks and now, as I look back, even in my ability to love, I was just a hair above the rest. 

Some of you might ask, “What’s so wrong with that?”

My answer? It sucks because I am fully aware of how close, and yet how far away I truly am from making any of my many endeavors a real success.  Just like me, everything I’ve attempted to succeed at, has only partially prospered. Right down to my relationships, which seem nothing more than a total mirror of my life in general. Always near that place of greatness, close and within sight, but not reachable, not achievable, impossible. 

I’ve worn myself out, my mind and body, and now I realize my heart is right there with the rest of me.  What do I want? Two different, unrelated people asked me that very question this week.  My mouth opens to offer an answer and nothing comes out.  I shrug.  I don’t want anymore.  I want nothing, I crave nothing.  I know that to want and crave and hope means to be denied, and if not denied, the work required is much too exhausting for the eventual outcome to be fully enjoyed.

So yeah, I’ve spent my life knowing I was close to special, but not quite. I’ve been near to the gold ring only to have it mercilessly snatched from my grasp.  I’ve been attractive, but not enough, I’ve been passionate, and real and honest, but maybe too much? I’ve toiled with not a scrap to show for it.  I’ve loved without reciprocation. I’ve applied myself physically and mentally, and still not found satisfaction or reward. 

Yeah, yeah, I know the affirmationists are chanting, “It could be worse!”

I call bullshit on that whole logic.  Worse than what? Worse than knowing you were close to a raging success, but never permitted to fulfill your potential? Always one obvious step behind? Close to brilliant, but oh sorry, not enough to be anything special. Close to talented enough to go to the Olympics, oh so sad, if only you’d been born to different parents and had the funding to follow your true capabilities?

And what about that whole relationship thing? Yeah, close to real love, close to that kind of mated for life, soul mates crap, but nope, sorry, you don’t get that.  Instead you get friendship without passion, desire without fulfillment, and an appetite without a meal to sate. My lifelong ache to be in a relationship that can ascend past shelter and food, now seems a total fairy tale, a true impossibility.  Who can be expected to have any passion left for life, let alone a partner, when the act of survival is all encompassing?

I often think it would have been easier to be less than average and totally unaware of my own lacks and stupidity.  Much easier to swallow the pill I am now forced to take daily. 

And no, to all of you chanting, “You’re not too old to still accomplish all that you ever wished for.”

Of course I’m not too old, but the sad truth is, I’m just too tired.  Too tired to fully love, think, dream, hope or care. Don’t you dare give me the bwah? Look.  Too tired to love? To dream? Yup, and if you’re honest with yourself, you know all that stuff takes work and energy as well.  Maybe it’s just me? Maybe I was indeed born with a broken heart and my reserves were low to start with.  I’ll give you that, might just be me.  I know I can be hard to take and I know I’m a big personality, and you either love me or hate me.  I shrug, very few love me, so on top of it all, I am thinking I might be the one at the audition that can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but thinks they are a wonderful singer.   

I told a friend I thought I had dreams and hope as synonymous words, which made me really think on that for well over a week.  To me, dreams intones a possibility that, me as the individual can accomplish them, maybe at some point, an outline for a future that I need to work at.  Hopes on the other hand are a wish for intervention; be it fates, or a divine holy power, or even other humans that might help and deliver on said hopes. 

So no, they are not the same word, although to me, I’ve lost both; dreams and hopes just don’t fly anymore.  They appease and pacify a lonely heart, but they don’t really help in the end.  They seem a futile way of calming my angst and my constant need to scream, “Is this it?  Really!!! This can’t be it!  There has to be more!”

Now, I once again find myself investing in one of my small talents.  My ability to tell a story and author those tales into printable words. It is so much work! So hard to write twenty thousand words a week consistently. I’ve been working at this for about three solid years now, and although I’ve gotten much, much better, I still see my lack of the academic as a giant hole in my development; and sadly, I find I am mediocre in comparison to any authors that are a success.  I read their works and I marvel at how good they are, and then I see where I am so obviously lacking, and it makes my soul ache. I know full well I can do better, given time and practice.  How though? How does one afford time?   

 I often feel a fraud or a fake, and always the fool.  What degree or certificate do I have that says I can produce, and then self-publish an entire novel? None, nothing, I really don’t have a clue what I’m doing.  That hasn’t stopped me, but it also hasn’t shown me anything close to success.  Definitely not enough to say this is what I can make as a career choice as I head into the second part of my life.

I’m still doing it, the writing.  I write all day, every day, and of course I am getting better.  My own inner template demands that of me. In everything I’ve ever done I don’t feel successful unless I grow and learn and change daily.  If I do something, I do it with my whole heart and I give it everything I have.  I don’t see the sense in being half assed about it, if it seems a possibility, and besides, what’s a better way to kill time?

Yeah, I fear that is where I am now days, killing time, counting down the days and months in my life.  I can’t live forever, I have to die eventually.  Right? Depressed yet? I chuckle through my tears, and then I write stories where I can disappear into a different world.  Into a world where love is all that matters and finding each other, being with each other, surviving in each other’s arms is the only answer to any question posed.  Love should always be the answer.

It isn’t in real life, but in my books it is, and I really like living in those worlds. So, even though I still feel the fool and I have no hope and fewer dreams, I seem magically capable of creating characters I wish I could be.  I feel lucky that for now, I am permitted to inhabit these other souls for short spells and exchange my reality for theirs.  I cringe though, because I think it might be mental illness, but then again, at least I am not aware of my lacks while I am there.