I think I may have figured out what my problem is of late. Yes, menopause is a bitch on ‘roids and I’m sure part of it has to do with my hormones. But I’ve been on edge for so long, stressed out, unsure whether I want to race a car around the block on foot or sleep for a week, and I think some of it at least has to do with the fact that I haven’t written anything substantial in about six months. I thought writing a fiction post every day might help, but it doesn’t. All it really does is add to my workload of editing two novels, keeping up with my main blog, as well as caring for my kids and my mother… and my house. I really should vacuum one of these years.
My little guy is going away to his dad’s for the weekend, so I’ll have time (hopefully) to get at least one editing project finished. Speaking of that, if any of you would like to volunteer to proofread a 10K romantic comedy novelette, that’d be fantastic. It’s a quick read. I should be finished my own final edit by the weekend. I’ll get it to you after that. I’m hoping to get it published in June. Once that’s out of the way, I’ll get back to working on one of the two novels I’ve started. With any luck it will lead to a happier, more pleasant, Izzy. And maybe some of the hair I’ve been yanking out by the roots can start to grow back.
I don’t like to talk about my mother on my regular blog, but I think I’m okay to talk about her here, where I’m somewhat anonymous. I’m not sure if any of my family follows this blog. I’ve only ever mentioned it once, a long time ago.
My mother is my only parent, my dad having died when I was young. I’m an only child, so it’s just her and me. And my kids, of course. I grew up with her, my dad, and their two best friends. My mother is the only one left. I used to think she was the lucky one, to have survived everyone else. Now I wonder.
She doesn’t remember anything from one minute to the next. She can ask me the same question every 15 seconds for 10 minutes. She’s beginning to lose her long-term memory as well. So I’ve been patient. But it’s not easy.
Lately she’s taken to accusing me of selling all she owned when I moved her into a retirement home. In actuality, she was there for the whole thing. She went through all her stuff and decided what to keep and what not to, she met the auctioneer who sold all she didn’t want. But now she asks me how I could sell everything she owns–her whole life–without telling her I was going to do it. It makes me feel small, guilty even, though I know I didn’t do anything wrong.
It’s tough watching your parents forget. It’s hard to deal with the forgetfulness, the anger, the bewilderment… And yes, I feel just as guilty for saying that maybe she’s not that lucky for having to go through all this. But life is cruel. I’m bewildered myself.
You can find the rules for Stream of Consciousness Saturday here https://lindaghill.com/2016/05/06/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-may-716/
The unimaginable has happened.
Close on the heels of finding out that E.L. James, author of Fifty Shades of Grey, has begun writing a “How To” book on writing (which makes me throw up in my mouth a little every time I think of it) came the suggestion from Kobo that I pre-order her next novel. It may or may not be entitled Grey – it was hard to tell through the blur of tears as I read the
devastating news email. What I did get was that the book is, get this, Fifty Shades of Grey AGAIN but through the eyes of Christian Grey instead of Anastasia (aka Mrs.) Grey.
I’ve mourned the loss of the money I
threw away spent when I bought the trilogy enough, I think, to know better than to buy the same thing AGAIN. But fans of the first three books surely will.
Will millions of readers die of boredom? Or worse, will they live to take advice from Ms. James on how to write a novel?
Stay tuned. And don’t worry, I’ll be there to hold your hand when the literary world gets whipped right out of existence.
I hate the feeling that my goodwill and compassion is being taken advantage of. Without any word of a lie, as much of the time I spend looking after myself, equal to or more time is spent on looking after everyone else. I’m always the first one to say, “don’t worry about it. I’ll do it.” And so I take on everyone else’s burdens. I have a hard time delegating. Especially when I can do most of the things that need to be done faster and more efficiently than those around me can.
I’m exhausted. Both physically and mentally. My frozen shoulder won’t let me sleep during the 5 hours I night I manage to be in bed. The pain is inhuman. When I am awake I’m being pulled in a thousand directions at once: have you done this for me yet? Have you called this doctor for him? That doctor for her? Can you come with me to this or that appointment? Sorry, I’m too busy to help you. Maybe next month… You want the money I owe you? Fuck you. This is what I listen to every day. And yeah, I allow it. But the truth is, I’m the only one who CAN do three quarters of what I do. It’s why I don’t have a job. Pfft. Like I sit around watching soaps all day.
And then everyone wonders why I go away on vacation alone.
I need a vacation. Again.
My A-Z Challenge this year contains posts about writing adult content in fiction – you will not find any adult fiction within the parameters of the challenge, except for illustration purposes.
I’ve spoken to many writers who have a hard time with dialogue. Making it realistic can be a challenge for some, but for me the main difficulty is apparently writing, “he said,” too often. I work hard on editing it out of all my first drafts. The only thing I don’t have a problem with, it seems, is heterosexual sex scenes. There is often little need for speech.
Where there are some other aspects of sex-scene writing that are awkward in terms of grammar and flow, they tend to be that much harder when the scene involves two (or more) people of the same gender. For the purposes of ease in demonstration, I’ll stick to two males. “He said,” and “he said,” is only part of the problem. The rest of it involves the fact that they both have the same body parts. When a scene is written with breasts and chests for instance, it’s obvious who the writer is talking about when these attributes are mentioned. In the case of two men, well, you get the picture without me describing it for you.
Of course one can use names, but saying, “George’s hand stroked Marvin’s cheek,” and so on gets quite annoying for the reader after a while. So what to do?
Really the only solution lies in the details. Mentioning that one is older and the other younger is a common way to differentiate in any situation. Taller and shorter, darker and lighter skinned – many things will work – even speech patterns. All things to think about when developing characters from the start.
The Daily Post asks, “Vanilla, chocolate, or something else entirely?”
I’m gonna talk about something else entirely. The straight guys in the audience might want to back out slowly now – or not. Maybe you’ll find this interesting.
Semen. Cum. Jizz. Whatever you want to call it. “They” say (you know who “they” are, right? No? Neither do I.) that what a guy eats will determine what his semen tastes like. I learned this way back in high school – it may have even been in a textbook.
It’s the type of thing that I, as a novelist, might have to research. That, along with “How do you get chlamydia and what happens when a man gets it?”, “What’s the earliest I can find out I’m pregnant?” and “How to go about organizing a public orgy,” would all raise eyebrows among my family members if they were to see my search terms on Google. Thank god (or, well, thank Firefox) for private browsing.
So are there 32 flavours of jizz? I do know the basic flavour is the same, but there are subtleties. Some isn’t as acidic. Some burns the throat. Some loads aren’t as horrible to swallow as others. Regardless, it’s always better warm and straight from the source.
Of course it’s all internet research I’m going by. Honest.
The Daily Post prompt today is: What makes a teacher great?
A great teacher of life allows his student to make her own mistakes.
A great teacher of life teaches by example.
These may take longer than to tell, or to teach using books,
but they are lessons more likely to stay with the student throughout her lifetime.
Well that went downhill fast ~~~~
Chris: Did you eat an egg?
Chris: Why did you eat an egg?
Me: Because I like them.
Chris: Did I used to be an egg in your tummy?
Chris: Did you have sex with my dad so I could be an egg in your tummy?
Are you good at what you do? What would you like to be better at?
I had to think about what it is I do. For the purposes of this pseudonymous blog I don’t want to get into what my “job” is–in fact I don’t really have one as such. Yes, I take care of my family blah blah blah… noble work, worthwhile and all that, but what do I do? What’s the core of what I do?
I survive. On limited resources which include (or not) money, energy, focus, stress-induced adrenaline, and laughter. I think it’s that last one that’s key to my survival. Just yesterday I said to someone that if I didn’t laugh I’d cry, so why not laugh?
It’s not survival of the fittest – the fittest I’m not. It’s survival of the funniest. And yeah, most of the time I’m damned good at it. Would I like to be better? Hand me that red rubber ball for my nose and I’ll let you know.
Find the Daily Post here.
Ugh, these viruses. We go out in public and we watch, don’t we? Avoiding those who sneeze or cough at all costs. We use hand sanitizer like it’s dishwater after Christmas dinner – we soak in it. Hell, we’d bathe in it if we could. Okay, maybe that’s just me; it gives you an idea of how much I don’t want to catch something nasty.
BUT. We can’t always rely on the fact that even though people don’t appear to be sick, they might be. According to my observations, it takes about 3 days from the time one gets infected until the symptoms show up. If I haven’t been out of the house in a while but I start to feel ill, I can usually count back and figure out where I picked up the sneaky asshole of a bug.
And then there are the people I live with. Unlike me they have lives. They go out and socialize every day. Then they come home. And don’t ya know, I still finish their meals and drink from their glasses because they LOOK fine…
I have a sickie in my basement right now. He has to come up eventually–there’s no washroom down there…
Standing at the top of the stairs armed with my bottle of hand sanitizer is a hard way to spend a day. But I’m not taking any chances.