I promised when I did the post about How The Male Orgasm Feels I would return and explore or explain, how an orgasm feels for a woman. Well, not me but rather my good friend, who was kind enough to give me these private details.
This is what she told me:
Affection: or fondness is a “disposition or rare state of mind or body”[1] that is often associated with a feeling or type of love. It has given rise to a number of branches of philosophy and psychology concerning: emotion (popularly: love, devotion etc.); disease; influence; state of being (philosophy);[2] and state of mind (psychology). “Affection” is popularly used to denote a feeling or type of love, amounting to more than goodwill or friendship. Writers on ethics generally use the word to refer to distinct states of feeling, both lasting and spasmodic. Some contrast it with passion as being free from the distinctively sensual element. (wikipedia)
Affucktion: the resulting effect on the male genitalia when engaged in affection. (azurepedia)
Though that last term doesn’t exist, I do think it’s how a lot of guys show their affection. When women make up after a fight, they usually want to cuddle and kiss and hug, but when men make up, they usually want to engage in affucktion. I’m sure this reaction varies somewhat between both sexes, since we can rise above our gender tendencies when we put our intelligent body parts to it.
But I guess what I wanted to do was consider the natural aspect of affucktion. How many times did a woman’s upper lip crawl over her teeth when her husband’s hands began fondling while in the middle of I’m sorrying? Or is it just ME??? Am I the only one that resists the urge to slap hands off, or knee the nearest groin?
Maybe I am the only one. What a terrifying thought.
But I got to thinking–(and there was silence in the heavens) What if that’s how men show affection? What if that’s what they need to feel better emotionally? Mentally? We can get by with hugs and kisses, but maybe a man is wired to need/want a tad more to make their universe right again?
Well.
See, whenever I learn that a man does stuff for reasons beyond their control, or reasons mother nature dictates, then I’m less inclined to be grumpy when he does it. In fact, I’m more inclined to help him feel better.
I’m done, the end.
For me, characters in a story are like children. They take what they can get, they think of only themselves, and they connive to get their way in everything.
Characters don’t give a shit about the author and their timeline, both in and out of the story. In erotic stories, heroes and heroines think of mainly one thing: screwing. I have to literally refuse my characters on every hand or the book will be filled with sex only. I experienced this with Johnny Blue (which is free today, by the way) all the hero could think about was doing his girl. Understandable for the hero. Not understandable for a novella that is supposed to have more than just sex. But isn’t that typical real life? Don’t we all want to just stay home and make love all day long with the one we love? Who wants to go to work? Or do anything else but bask in the afterglow?
Well, it may be typical of real life desires, and it may be typical of my characters, but it is not typical for a story where readers expect to delve into other aspects and details of the hero and heroine within the confines of 25,000 words.
Having to create worlds and keep everything in tact within that world while dealing with free moral agents isn’t easy. And satisfying everybody is impossible. But one thing I have to keep in mind, is that my characters are just that–characters. I may breathe life into them on the page, but I am ultimately god over them. And if I am not, then they are god over the story. And that can’t happen seeing as they are selfish bastards and care nothing for great story elements like plot, pace, flow, and arc.
I hear a lot of authors say that their characters dictate what happens, when, where, how, and why. When that occurs, you often find yourself in places that don’t work, aka dead ends that require you to back out, back up, and head on in reverse to the crossroad where the shit went wrong. The result is CUTTING words. And for writers, cutting words is just… so not cool.
Ultimately, I find being in control of my characters is the best way to prevent the above. Being aware that my characters are unique and have voice is great. But the writer is a choreographer of words that translate into reality for readers. We control that reality by controlling the words/characters/story world and all its elements. I have to keep reminding myself about the whole my characters are amazing and amazingly selfish in respect to my story. So, for me, there must always be a governing authority in the story world if I expect all lines to form a comprehensive and cohesive shape. I can use the algebraic method in writing, where I write first and discover the cause and purpose as I go. Or I can determine the cause and purpose before I write and dictate the outcome. It’s like moving on a whim or moving with a plan. Whims are great and seem fresh in the moment, but if they are not tested against the logic of the story, those amazing whims can become roadblocks, dead ends, or even story bombs, costing you time and words.
Not that it can’t be done and hasn’t been done. All stories, regardless how they transfer onto the page, must be wrestled into some form of submission. Whether you wrestle your mind to conform to the incoming creativity, or wrestle the creativity to conform to your mind. I have done both, and some in between, and now realize that great art in any form is first inspired then transferred via some medium. But for me, regardless of the method of transference, creativity must be governed if I expect the end result to reflect the initial inspiration.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s great if anybody should choose to just move with the flow without knowing the end or even caring about it. But for professional writers, it’s risky. Fun, maybe, but risky. We’re entitled to take risks but risks are often luxuries we can’t afford in any profession. If you’re wanting to eliminate risks, then careful planning during the creative process is imperative. Not that you don’t run into problems this way when you go to lay it on the page. Often times going from planned point A to planned point B doesn’t work out the way we thought. But the problem is usually quarantined and specific rather than contaminating the entire plot.
Yes, I could go on and on with variables in this subject, but I’ll stop here. Editing and writing duties call.
Happy Writing
Hell yes there is, and I think we need to distinguish, because right now, the two are getting mashed together into the same hot box.
I often see Readers calling Erotica smut when it is not. Material that depicts graphic sex is not smut, because it is not the GRAPHIC sex that makes smut, it is the context of said graphic sex that makes it smut.
If it is sex for the sake of only physical pleasure, then I can see it being called SMUT. If it is hot graphic sex for the sake of LOVE, then back the frack up and do not call that which is holy, unholy. Sex between two people in love is never smut.
I was given a one star rating on my book Meet Me due to the fact it was SMUT. The reader made this determination within the first page of the story and didn’t read on. The story opens with my heroine reading a hot sex scene out of a Romance novel and then proceeds to masturbate to said sex scene due to the fact she was sexually frustrated and having marital problems. I captured the reality of her misery in this way and yes it was graphic. Does that make it smut? I suppose that answer is subjective. She also mentioned that the blurb didn’t hint at this type of smuttery. No, it did not, the genre from which she obtained the book took care of that.
It’s fine that the reader doesn’t like a story to start a certain way. But what isn’t right is to wrongly define a piece of writing based on your sexual preference or taste. In defense of readers on this matter, there is no genre to distinguish between real Erotica and Smut, therefore the two are often seen as the same. It’s unfortunate, because that means women around the world feel the need to hide the fact that they read real Erotica, because they don’t want to be known as the mother/daughter/woman who reads smut.
I heard an interview on the radio not long ago, where the host was interviewing a Christian woman who wrote Erotic Romance. The man consistently referred to her work as “Chic Porn” and not only did I want to wring his neck but the author’s as well for not saying, “Stop right there. Let’s get something straight here.” And then go on to educate the ignorant man on the difference between Porn and Erotica. I can only guess that perhaps the author herself didn’t have a solid grasp on the difference.
I found this definition to sum it up the best:
Erotica represents the complex cartography of desire, full of hazard and mystery, inviting endless exploration.
Pornography is a dumbed-down diagram leading to a cul-de-sac whose only destination is libidinal claustrophobia. Link
See the difference? In my own personal and simple definition:
Erotica is the true expression of love in its entirety.
Smut and porn are Frankenstein expressions that depict only the physical pleasure of a sexual act.
In even simpler terms. Sex without love eventually leads to:
Spread the word. Eradicate the stigma.
Hello CYBER borgs. Today, I have the famous Mark Tompkins on my blog (which is all renovated ;) as a guest AUTHOR. And really, he should have been on my blog a month ago, but I’ve had a baby since. *bows and catches flowers, blows kisses*
Okay, so, let’s get on with it, shall we?
Mark, hello my dear, how are you?
Mark: Azure, thank you for having me on your blog! This is the second time you have popped my blog cherry, I hope my wife will understand.
Azure: HA HA! Forgot to mention, Mark is one of the wittiest people I know (apart from myself)
Mark: Anywho, I appreciate the chance to give my readers some insight into who I am and why I do what I do.
Azure: Why DO you do what you do, Mark?
Mark: Well, first, let me tell you how I arrived here. I played piano since I was nine years old and went to college to be a concert pianist. During my junior year, my mother had a stroke and I left college to help my father take care of her. I never made it back to college and my days of playing classical piano were numbered.
Azure: Classical piano! Helloooo!
Mark: Yeah, right? So, two years later, I joined the Air Force to work with the Minuteman III Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles and that is what I have done for the last 21 years.
Azure: Stop right there young man. So we can all thank you for your service. I googled minuteman and found it fascinating by the way. So yes, thank you. K, go on.
Mark: You’re very welcome Azure. I also picked up a second job as a bartender and supplemented my income that way for 14 years. As you can tell, I can’t sit still very long, I have to keep moving!
Azure: WOW, that’s amazing. What do you like to do besides WORK?
Mark: I like to camp, bike, hike, fish, explore new places, basically anything that lets me experience something new, fun and outdoors!
Azure: So, about this writing, how did that get started?
Mark: Well, I’ve been an avid reader since I can remember and still love to devour as many books as possible. As a young child, they transported me to worlds I could never really visit and allowed me to take journeys not possible in this life. I knew by the time I was ten years old and had read The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings series and literally hundreds of other books, that writing was what I wanted to do. I wanted to be the one creating the adventures and the different worlds that people could visit whenever they wanted. I wanted to be the one in control, creating something out of nothing and bringing my thoughts into reality with the stroke of a pen. To wield that power is the singularly most intoxicating experience in the world to me, and when I’m not at work on the base, I spend as much time as I can doing it. I was weaned on Stephen King, Dean Koontz, John Saul, you know, all the small named authors nobody really knows and I hope one day after I’m famous to help them get their work known.
Azure: You’re hilarious! Okay, so what’s you favorite genre?
Mark: I have always loved thriller and horror books. I like to be afraid to turn off the light after reading a scary book or watching a scary movie. To me, it is a much more powerful emotion than joy, now let me explain. The intensity of the positive feelings I have for things in my life have always faded more quickly than being afraid. Think of spiders, or whatever you may be afraid of, that fear never seems to lose its intensity throughout life, but it’s much harder to remember how happy you were when you turned sixteen and could drive, or how you felt when you graduated high school. That is why I write horror, it’s just ingrained in my DNA as an author and when I put my hands to the keyboard and let them loose, horror is what comes out.
Azure: Damn dude, now you got me all interested in HORROR. So, tell me, what do YOU have for us?
Mark: Check out Road Rage, my Thiller/Horror hybrid. It’s about a man’s struggle to keep himself and his family alive after getting involved with some very bad people. A bloody mayhem ensues and propels the reader through one disaster after another, relentless and unforgiving. The ending will leave you speechless! You can get it at the link below, just click on the book cover.
Azure: ALLLLRIGHTY there we have it folks. Or there YOU have it rather. Below, in that LINK. Buy the book, for yourself, for a friend, if you can’t, it would be a great help if you SHARED his links even! Well, Mark, I’d like to thank you for your service to our country again, so THANK YOU!!! From me and all of my family. What a fascinating journey it has been for you, you’re an inspiration to all of us! Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom you long winded man you! Hahaha. Just kidn, it was FUN. Please come again and don’t forget me when you’re rich and famous!
My second book, “The Fresinnius Chronicles” is about a demon terrorizing the people of an upscale apartment complex in Bossier City, Louisiana. It will scare the hell out of you…
My third work, “What Grabs You”, is my first published short story about a man who encounters a nightmare come real while he is sitting on the toilet. This very graphic story is the epitome of everything men fear, but women will find it equally as horrifying.
My next short story, ”Pieces”, will be available on Amazon in December. It’s about a man who discovers a horrific surprise in his cellar, and they are not friendly.
My next novel is called Blood Nurses and is part of the Blood series. It should be available in the spring of 2013. I will release more information as it becomes available.
As of now, I have approximately sixty other works in various stages of completion and I am trying to find the time to exorcise them all from my head. Stay tuned to see what mean and nasty things spring from my dark side, you won’t be disappointed.
Here are a few links if you would like to find out more about me.
http://www.amazon.com/Mark-Tompkins/e/B008TS67TS/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1353774214&sr=1-2-ent
http://www.facebook.com/marktompkinsauthor
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6458868.Mark_Tompkins
http://marktompkinsauthor.com/
http://www.facebook.com/marktompkinsauthor#!/marktompkinsroadrage
http://www.facebook.com/marktompkinsauthor#!/pages/The-Fresinnius-Chronicles/299503743496212
http://www.facebook.com/marktompkinsauthor#!/pages/What-Grabs-You/515627581799687
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/marktompkinsauthor
https://twitter.com/MTompkinsAuthor
http://marktompkinsauthor.wordpress.com/
Azure, thank you for lending me some or your electronic space to tell the readers a little bit about me. May your dreams forever be filled with my nightmares.
Errrr THANK YOU???
Bring a great holiday event to your readers and gain some new followers by signing up for Winter Wonder Week!
Winter Wonder Week is a week-long event to celebrate the winter holidays with lots of prizes awarded. There will be four prize pack giveaways and a grand prize for a total of five prize packs. Winter Wonder Week will run from December 8 – 15 and be heavily promoted. All giveaway posts need to be live no later than 3 p.m. on December 8th. To sign up and for more information, please visit: http://parentpalace.com/2012/08/winter-wonder-week-sign-ups/.
So, I beta read Dear Teddy part three by JD Stockholm. When he sent me the file, it was titled Stupid Boy. First thing I wanted to do was change it. Isn’t that how we are though? Wanting to just erase the wrong, and make it right? I did that throughout the manuscript in fact, changed words to erase the lies. I was like an out of control parent, storming through his past and rewriting crap like it might actually help.
He said he got a good laugh about it, so, I’m glad for that.
But you know, the most amazing thing happened while I read book three. I began to really understand this kid. I began to “get” why he didn’t want to look in the mirror, “get” why he felt “bad”.
Reading these accounts in the child’s point of view has allowed me to actually watch how the abuse took hold of him, how he processed it, and how his phobias were born.
Tremendously educational while at the same time, insanely horrific.
Some things that really struck me in book three, I mean really slapped awe into me, was this kid’s compassion! The best way for me to explain it, is to show it. Warning…this scene is taken from the part in his life when he’s being sexually abused by strangers all day long at a “camp” his “parents” sent him to:
My hand is sore. I don’t be able to hold the cover very tight. The girl next to me has too much and I don’t be able to pull it back. The dark man made it all sore because he squished it all down. He didn’t mean to. He said he was sorry about it. I told him it was okay. I didn’t want him to be sad about it.
I swear. This broke my heart. I mean, here’s this sweet kid, suffering the most horrific shit, and he has the heart to care about the man who hurt him. Un-believable. Truly. I couldn’t even suggest what form of torture would befit this mother-effer in the comments section. I was too blown away.
What’s different about book three too is the whole Stupid Boy theme. At this time, this kid is sure he’s got to be the most stupid kid on the planet. He can’t do anything right, everything he does makes people hate him and hurt him. The author opens every chapter with a small Stupid Boy story that summarizes what the chapter holds. So very clever, and as usual, the voice, the vocabulary, is just remarkable.
I just want to say that Stupid Boy is my hero! I love Stupid Boy, he’s like the most awesome kid on the planet to me. He was even nice to the monsters in his stories:
Stupid Boy and his friends all went out for the day. They went to the big hills that touched the sky. They climbed the hills. It took a long, long time. Maybe a week. There was lots and lots of snow. It was all white and shiny and cold.
Mr. Ted thought maybe there would be penguins. They got to hear a growl outside. It was a snow monster. It was all big and scary. He got big giant claws that was all black. He got sharp teeth too and was going to eat everyone all up.
Mr. Ted and Stupid Boy got their swords and went outside to chop the monster up. Mr. Ted hit the monster with his sword and the monster cried.
Stupid Boy feeled sad in his tummy. The snow monster was cold. He wanted to sit in the tent by the fire.
They all got to be friends.
Who votes Stupid Boy for president? ME ME ME!!!
Another amazing thing I learned was why the child in the story thought he was bad. He didn’t like when his father did sexual things to him, and so, he was sure it was the bad inside him that made him not like the sexual things his father and mother made him do. His parents were so good at pretending it was normal and good, that the child figured he was the bad one for having a problem with it!
That just blew me away when I realized that was happening.
I think the end of this book was the hardest for me to read out of all the books so far. In fact, I even told him, “I don’t think you’re going to be able to put this, it’s too horrible, people aren’t going to be able to read it.”
And it was only a day’s account at that hellish camp they sentenced him to. I asked him how long he went there. He told me every weekend and during holidays, for nearly two years!
Why was this abuse worse? Because it hurt him more. He wanted to go home. He wanted his mom. His dad. This abuse at the hands of strangers was much worse on his psyche than any other. And it went on for nearly two years. I truly didn’t think the reader would be able to endure that torture, because we become very tied to him throughout the book and feel like we’re forcing him live it again. But the problem is, he can’t stop living it in his mind.
Of course there are others, like me, that if it’s there, I must read it. Or I will feel like he’s finally cried out and I have left him alone to bear it. Turned away because it was too painful. So, I’m not sure how much of it will get left or removed, but, I do hope he does whatever he needs to.
Well, this concludes my review on the Dear Teddy part 3 book, Stupid Boy. I thank the author for allowing me the privilege of reading this account and not being angry at me for marking it all up with my temper tantrums. And please…please help me spread the news, help the author educate the public about the hidden side of child abuse.
A roly-poly-looking boy opened the door to the supposed exorcism room, and I nearly choked on the smell. What is that…tuna shit? I looked around. Was it a closet? There was one lightbulb in the low ceiling, dainty flowered wallpaper, and peeling, crumbling plaster. And a goddamn toddler bed? I turned. “Is this a joke? I told you I had to be chained someplace solid.”
Roly smirked. “This exorcism room. No place else.”
I threw my hands out. “What the hell, dude? Why did you say ‘yes yes yes’ on the goddamn phone when we talked about this thirty minutes ago?”
His eyes bulged, and he mumbled around the noodles he’d crammed in his mouth. “’Cause I not think you are being serious.”
Well, motherfuck. I headed out of the nauseating shoe box and ran into a thousand-year-old man two feet shorter than me, with about seven silver hairs glued down on his head. “Are you the priest?” It was difficult to breathe around the new smell of tequila and pissed-on daisies that followed the man. “Look, sorry, I can’t do this. I told your…secretary…that I have to be chained to do this. The last priest to perform an exorcism on me died. I’m not killing anybody again, no way.”
The old man raised his right hand and nodded his head. “Santo is good helper, but he is very stupid.” I scanned his black and yellow silk robe as the old man leveled his calm, cirrhosis-yellowed gaze at me. “I am very sorry for your trouble. If you would prefer, I can perform this exorcism with you in the bathroom downstairs.”
Like this happened every day.
“Can lock you in, chain you to the big iron tub.” His bushy brows lifted to a height that said he thought this was cute.
I imagined his gnarly, twig body snapping in two right after the “Big Bad Wolf” blew his little room down.
Why am I doing this? I lowered my head and pressed a shaky thumb and index finger to my eye. Sheeku. “Okay. Let me see this tub.”
Thirty minutes later I’m wrapped in chain, and it is wrapped around a claw-foot tub. The bathroom door is locked, and the door leading to the bathroom is locked. So why was I terrified?
The chains would hold me.
I lay there, and the helper stood at the door, keeping an eye on me and updating me on the progress. “Will only take fifteen minutes.”
Alarm struck. “Fifteen minutes? That’s it? Is that…normal?” I called out.
“Yes. This very normal.”
He was so lying. He just wanted me to shut up. “What is this, a five-and-dime exorcism?”
“Not five-and-dime!” he yelled. “The master begins. You shut up.”
I listened to him call out each step of the exorcism. Then he said, “The master is on final phase. He loads the Tao gun.”
Tao gun. I had no idea what the hell that was, but the demon responded to it like a crucifix. And for him, it was like unlocking his prison cell. The word echoed and dragged as eternal things infringed on my reality. It was coming. I heard the shots of the Tao gun, and the giant black form slithered through the crack in the demon’s prison cell. Frozen in horror before the ten-foot monster form of rage and lust unified, I could only stare wide-eyed at the molten lava that oozed like an infection from the jagged ravines in thick-crusted skin. The charred black monster grinned at me, twisting its seven-horned head, relieving a kink in its neck. Then he entered me, hard and ruthless. My scream came from far away as he shoved his way inside me, tearing me everywhere.
My vision blurred, small bones cracked in my ears, and strange symbols flashed before my eyes as the demon slipped on my skin like a suit and took control of my body. “Kill the little man four rooms away,” Rage said.
That was the extent of his purpose. No, that was all he was allowed. The Tao priest was the doorway; he was the one who’d opened it. He was the prize to collect. All I could do was watch as I moved under the power of the duel demons within me.
The exorcist needed to hurry.
“Stupid chains,” Lust said. The voices of rage and lust took turns gurgling out of my mouth. I stood and jerked the tub once, twice, water pipes hissing. I roared and plunged through the door.
The fat kid scuttled down the hall.
I only needed to get within five feet of the priest, and the tub would make a perfect weapon.
I gave a long, warbled giggle and pulled the tub through the hall, taking out walls along the way.
“He’s going crazy, hurry!”
I spun at the helper’s voice, pissed. My mouth opened, and hell roared out in a blast of fury. The window was brief. I jerked to the stairway.
“Can I shove the Tao gun up the old man’s ass?” Lust asked.
More giggles rumbled through me as I dragged the tub up the stairs, railings and spindles groaning and snapping off with each step. “We’re gonna huff…” I took several more steps. “And we’re gonna puff…” I gave another vicious jerk. “We’re gonna blow your house down.”
I rammed through the paper door and grinned at the priest. He crouched in the corner, and I waggled my brows. “How’s ’bout a bath?”
The priest made frantic hand movements to dispel me.
I thrashed my head. “Stop it, stop it.” Then I laughed. “Go ahead, shoot me. Here’s your target. Do it.” I held my testicles. “Got your hell right here.”
The man mumbled frantic Chinese, cowering in fear.
I panicked from deep inside my mind where I watched, helpless. This isn’t working, this isn’t working. I quickly envisioned another reality. Demon in the cube, demon in the cube, cube whole, cube whole!
Time suspended as I waited in terror for it to work. A deep rumbling raced toward me, low at first, until it became a roar inside me, rattling my bones. Then everything whirled and pulled in toward my center, sucking until it all ended in a soft shhhhhhhwooop.
My eyes rolled up in my head, and I collapsed in the sudden darkness, my blue shield growling with a frigid “I told you so.”
All that remained, all I could think about, was the shitload of pain I was in. Fuck.
I woke up in my bed, smelling Sheeku everywhere. Silk slid over my body, and I opened my eyes.
Shit. Not my bed. I looked around—double shit—Sheeku’s bed.
What, why, where, when, and how flew through my head as I moved up on my elbows. Pain racked my body. What the fuck had happened? Delicate pink undergarments were laid out neatly on the covers, igniting heat in celibate places, and bringing an instant I’m-naked revelation.
Hooooly shit.
I made my way out of the bed, dragging the sheet with me and hiding my aching need for the bathroom. I went to the door and listened, hearing silence in the house. I glanced at the digital clock and saw it was five.
Morning? Evening?
I tiptoed into the hallway and saw Jeremy sleeping on the couch. I heard the door in the master bathroom and rushed back into her room, not wanting to get caught in only a sheet. Then I realized she was probably headed to my hiding spot. Shit.
I hid behind the door in the bedroom, listening. It swung open, and Sheeku walked in and pushed it shut with her heel, not even glancing in my direction.
I held my breath, watching her as she walked to the now sheetless bed. Wet, in a pink satin robe. My God, I should say something.
She opened her robe and turned toward me.
“Oh shit.” I shut my eyes.
Sheeku screamed in frantic Chinese.
I kept my eyes closed. “I’m so sorry.” I held out my hand in peace. “I thought you’d see me here, and I promise, I was about to stop you, but you were too fast.”
“You see me!” she whispered, sounding horrified.
“No, no, I barely—”
She gave another appalled gasp.
“I’m sorry. I closed my eyes as fast as I could. I don’t even remember what I saw.” Goddamn lie of the century. She was every bit as beautiful as I remembered.
“Can I…open my eyes now?”
“Yes.”
I did and found her sitting on the edge of the bed, still shaken, both hands over her lowered face.
She finally looked at me. “Why are you in here?”
“I was…about to ask you the same question. I don’t remember coming in.”
“You have been gone for four days!”
“Four days?” I closed my eyes and implored help from my shield. Then I saw the cube and remembered. Oh shit, the exorcism. That’s why I hurt like hell. The demon had raped the fuck out of my body, disgusting bastard. “What’s today?”
Her expression was pained, like why did that matter? “Wednesday!” She put her hands over her face again.
“Hey, hey.” I sat next to her and touched her shoulder. Oh wow, her hair was down. I stroked it gently. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, keeping her face covered.
“Did anybody upset you?”
She jerked toward me and spoke incredulous Chinese.
I widened my eyes a little. She looked adorable when she was angry. “Sheeku, I…I can’t understand you. What are you saying?” I continued stroking the black river down her back.
“You! You upset me!” She slapped my hand away. “You leave and do not tell me where you are.”
I tried to keep the smile down, but it was impossible. “You were worried about me?”
She aimed her blue eyes at me, anger flashing. “No, I am not worried. Angry with you,” she corrected.
“Angry, why?”
She slapped her legs. “I tell you this.”
“Because I left without telling you? Because I was gone for…” I thought about it a moment. “Three days?”
“Four days! All night Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday!” She demonstrated the math on her fingers right in my face, then stood up, glaring down, clenching the robe tightly at her chest. “Do not make fun about this.”
My grin went from ear to ear before I took in her appearance. God, she looked amazing with her hair down. I hated that braid. “It’s okay if you missed me.”
Want The Book? Click The Pic! 
Very Yummy Excerpt
“I should get a shirt on.”
I choked out a gasp, horrified. Horrified that it was quite obvious to him how much he affected me. “Oh, pffft, not at all, you’re fine,” I said, making it clear that it was utterly unnecessary.
He grinned. “Well thank you.”
“I meant, I’m fine, as in, not bothered, it doesn’t bother me, I see men all the time like that around here, everybody goes around in the summer time without shirts.” I capped the lie with an overly exuberant laugh.
“Everybody?”
I met his teasing gaze and half grin. “You know what I mean.” My voice dropped to its usual low tenor, aka my strong voice.
“I’m Johnny.” He reached a hand out to me.
I tore my eyes from his and stared at his hand. I was suddenly very concerned over what touching this man would do to me. “Jewel.” I placed my hand in his.
My heart raced as he lifted it and pressed my knuckles to his soft, full lips. “Perfect name.”
His hot breath and lips on my fingers went straight to all those womanly places that I’d barred every man from. I gripped his fingers, needing something to hold on to.
He eyed me with wonder.
I forced a disconnection, trying to appear unburned by his touch. But I failed miserably as I pulled back my hand with a series of embarrassing jerky hesitations. My lord, I’d said more without words than I could or wanted to explain, and yet felt the need to.
“Johnny, huh?” It came on a squeaky whisper.
“Yeah.” He lowered his head, and I glanced at him, trying to read his mind. He looked troubled, but about what and why, lord I wanted to know.
“Do you have a middle name, Jewel?”
He spot-lighted me with liquid sapphire and my mouth opened without speech. “Uh, well, yeah, everybody has a middle name.” I stroked my ponytail several times and tried to smile. “Pearl is mine. Jewel Pearl Harbor.” I gave a light laugh. “Momma and daddy never lacked a sense of humor.”
I realized I cared way too much about what he thought about my stupid name. Of course his face would grow so darn serious again. And mysterious. “It’s uh, a family joke.” I took a deep breath, feeling the need to level this playing field. “What about you? What’s your middle name?”
He turned from the island and answered me with his delicious backside. “No middle name. Just Johnny Blue.”
I averted my gaze as he turned with the coffee pot, barely managing to not get caught lusting. I watched the coppery liquid pour into the red ceramic. “Johnny Blue? Well I think that’s a very nice name. Is that why your favorite color is blue?”
He only gave a soft smile, keeping his attention on the cups. “How do you know that?”
I tossed a glance at the art studio. “Well it’s pretty obvious in those pictures over there, I think. I love them—the colors I mean. And the pictures too, of course.”
He assaulted me with one of those electrical smiles while I’d bumbled out the words, turning up the voltage as each word passed my lips. Whether he liked what I said, or thought I was hilarious, I wasn’t sure, but more inclined to believe the worst.
He slowly slid my cup of coffee to me then went to the counter behind him and returned with a tray. I smiled at the two white glass canisters with tiny green dragons painted on them. Adorable. He set them on the island between us. “Cream and sugar?”
“I uh- yeah, why not.” I pulled the tray carefully toward me.
“Are you trying to quit?” His soft tone held humor.
I glanced from him to the canisters, picking up the tiny silver spoon that went with it. “Nah, I just…” I removed the lid to the sugar and scooped two in my cup, try-ing to think. “I normally drink it black, but, with dishes like this, I can’t resist.” I cleared my throat and picked up the creamer then promptly over-flowed my cup with it. “Oh lordy,” I whispered.
I looked around for a cloth and Johnny tossed me a napkin. I wiped it up, feeling like this whole thing was a long and painful audition that I was ruining. I gave a light laugh, bringing the mug of coffee to my lips. “I’ve always been a goofball.” And to prove my point, I dribbled coffee down my chin.
Johnny was just a watchin the whole damn show and tossed me another napkin. I forced out more light laughter. “Might as well give me the whole stack, I’m likely to need it.”
He slid the wrought iron napkin holder closer and I shot a glance at him. “Just as you’re likely to not get many visitors like me, I’m likely to burn the place down.”
Likely, likely, don’t you know any other words? I dabbed coffee off my chin and white t-shirt, then wiped the counter for extra measure all the while feeling the burn of those blue orbs on me.
“It ain’t nice to stare at the company, Johnny B.” I took another sip of coffee, be-ing extra careful while avoiding his gaze.
“You’re nice to stare at.”
The compliment undid the little composure I pretended to have and coffee sloshed out of my cup when I set it down too fast. “Might as well dump the whole cup on the counter and get it over with,” I mumbled, grabbing another napkin and shaking my head.
“Can I paint you?”
“Ohhhh my lord,” I breathed, fanning my face a little. “Paint me? Like with paint?” For some reason I thought he meant on my body, then it dawned on me he meant paint a picture of me. “Oh, I—I’ve never done anything like that.”
“Me either.”
I looked at him, surprised.
“Well, I mean…” he looked down. “I haven’t’ in a very long time.”
That pressed my puzzle button. “Well why start now?”
His brows drew together briefly. “Yeah, you’re probably right, stupid idea.”
I immediately regretted my words. “Well, I mean, I wouldn’t call it stupid, I just ain’t never had nobody want to paint me, it’s kinda… I don’t know, embarrassing, I guess.” I stirred the little spoon in my cup loudly.
“Embarrassing?” Like he’d thought it was something else and had never consid-ered that.
“Well yeah, I’m not used to people…you know…” I tapped the spoon rapidly on the edge of my cup then returned it to the tray, “staring at me.”
I took a sip in the fat silence.
“Of course.”
I was pretty sure that was relief I heard in that velvety voice of his. The idea that he might have his own inhibitions made me want to encourage him. “I ain’t never had nobody ask to paint me. But… if I was to be painted, I think you’d be a… I mean, you’re very nice and… it’s just a picture for crying out loud.” I laughed a little. “I’d love it if you painted me, why not. Only if you still want to, though.”
I worked up the nerve to look at him after several seconds of silence. Made no sense that I suddenly wanted to beg him to. But I did. Cause it felt like he’d offered me a ride and I’d turned it down, not realizing he was offering a ride to the moon.
He suddenly walked toward me and as the distance closed between us, my heart sped up. He stood at my left shoulder and all I could do was keep my palms firmly on the counter, waiting, holding my breath, wondering what on earth he might say or do.
My body tingled when he slid a finger along my face. Then spoke words that went further into my bones than words had a right to go. “I do want to paint you.”
Raw need filled that sexy voice and lit a fire in me. A fire I had no idea how to control, didn’t want to. I couldn’t turn to him cause I could feel it. The insane urge to consume his lips right where he stood. Lord. How did this happen?
“Can I start tomorrow?” His voice was so damn calm! It was unfair.
My heart hammered my chest. Start? How long did it take? I nodded, only able to glance toward him, surely not at him. What must he be thinking? What a prude to be so undone over something so silly. It’s not like I was stripping naked.
My stomach jolted as naked bodies flashed in my mind, making lava leak from that volcano in my center. “I’d… I’d really like that.” And there it was, years of unmet need right there in my quiet answer. But all regret was erased when he whispered that thank you, next to my ear. I’d never heard such emotions mixed in a tone. Joy—mystery—passion—it was enough to make me swoon.
I suddenly knew right then and there. I would let that man paint me however he wanted or needed. Clothed, nude, standing on my head, it didn’t matter, the only thing that mattered was answering that need I’d heard in “I do want to paint you.” Because re-ally, to my ears, it sounded like, I do need to paint you.
I followed his beautiful form as he went to the sink, turned, and placed both palms on the counter behind him. “What time would you like to come?”
I tucked hair behind my ear wondering why the word come suddenly took on an erotic meaning. “I get off work after supper time—eight o-clock. If you don’t mind workin’ evenin’s then…that works for me.”
He stirred his coffee then put his spoon in the sink next to him. “I love painting in the evening.”
I swallowed as every letter in his soft words slid through me and tickled places that had never been touched. Not like that.
“So it’s a date.” He gave me a sexy half smile before sipping his coffee, all while masturbating my soul with those clear blue eyes.
I focused on sipping my own coffee, wanting to vomit with excitement. “Yes, it sure is.”
Yes, it’s sad but true. We sometimes accidentally kill what we love. And in our case as writers, we sometimes accidentally kill the real life experience in our writing. We don’t mean to, but we do. Let’s face it, writing is harder than it looks. Those books we read that are flawless and read so effortlessly, does not mean it was effortless to write. I learned that the hard way, yes, I’ll admit it, that’s what I thought when I set out to become a writer.
I wanted to discuss first person pov writing. You don’t hear near as much about the craft of writing in 1st person point of view as we do of the more popular 3rd. I’ve searched the world over for it in my endeavor to learn the art and the pickings were slim and often not as in depth as I would’ve liked.
Let’s start with the first obvious problem we run into when writing first person. ”I itis” How the hell do we start sentences without using the pronoun I? I’m a horrible learner which forces me to be a thorough “explainer” of what I’ve learned, and the only way I know how to do that is by “showing”.
Example of sentences beginning with “I” and various ideas for fixes. Good news: There’s a lot.
Example: I thought about what he said, and he was right, I had a demon.
Possible fix: That one thought kept running through my head. You have a demon.
Possible fix: You have a demon. The thought whispered through me. Was he right? Maybe.
Possible fix: Dan’s words pulsed through me with dread. You have a demon… you have a demon… you have a demon.
Possible fix: You have a demon. No, no, no. Had to get the thought out of my head.
There are times when using “I” has better impact, more punch. So, it’s about strategy. Use your “I”‘s wisely. Just like with any word, you don’t want to over use it and you don’t want to misuse it. There’s a program out there that highlights overused words and I find tools like that just super duper. There’s a lot to think about when writing, and counting “I’s” is not a chore to burden ourselves with. Let machines do the dirty work if you can so that you can be free to think about keeping sight of the forest while in the trees; keeping hold of theme and arc while creating those scenes that take us from point A to point B. But that cool tool I’m thinking of, is called Auto Crit. Here’s a link: Very cool tool (lets you try it for free)
I asked myself a question when I couldn’t find much on how to write first person. Why isn’t it very popular? It is becoming more popular, but still, there are many readers that don’t care for it. Well, maybe we should find out why they don’t care for it and see if we can’t remedy that.
One of the things I hear is, “I don’t like being stuck in the head of one character that long.”
And that brings us to lesson number two in first person writing. How do I create the freedom a reader feels in 3rd person writing? Answer: Diversity.
I don’t care how great somebody’s voice is, after a while, the greatness wears off. (see Anita Blake)
It’s funny that inner monolog and strong voice are some of the driving elements in first person that make it good and yet, it’s those very elements that can kill it. Too much of a good thing, you know the rest. The magical key is MIX IT UP. You hear of comedy relief, well, we need, get me the hell out of this head relief. People will begin to feel trapped and uncomfortable. It applies to all first person writing in every genre. So, action, humor, drama, inner reflection, horror, description, information, SPREAD IT OUT. Writers are readers and we know that we’re diverse creatures and love diversity. We might love winter, but after a few months of it, we’re ready for spring. Am I repeating myself? I’m a mother, deal with it.
To get lost in first person writing, you have to just “show” the main character living. Try not to have him tell the story all the time. Don’t have him tell me everything he’s thinking, doing, feeling, smelling, just show me.
I have to show you what I mean.
Example of telling me: I went down to the corner store and went in to find the same cashier from the day before. He still wore the same smirk. The air was stale and the floors were marked up with gooey black.
Example of showing me: Wonder if what’s his face is going to be working today. Clinking sounded above my head as I swung open the door. Mmm, nothing like the smell of warmed pine-sol and spilled beer, geeze, how does anybody work in here? One look at the cashier said he still hated my guts. Oh well. Maybe he wouldn’t talk on the phone while checking me out next time. I made my way to the fountain drinks, a little unnerved by the loud sticking sounds my sneakers made against the built up goo on the floor.
Notice how showing takes a little more space than telling? But also notice, while I did tell some things, mixing it up with that inner dialogue helps to make it feel more like an “experience” rather than reading something that happened. Even though I’m in past tense, it still feels like you’re with him in the moment. Keeping it real can be tricky. Real life is not a smooth set of events. It comes with a jerky flow, odd timing. If you capture that in a scene, then you’ve made the story “real” for the reader.
Then there are what are called first person filters.
I saw the bird. Why not A bird zipped by. Does the reader know the pov character saw the bird? Yes, if the pov character shows anything, it means they’re seeing it, why not just show it and not tell the reader what they already know.
Same for I heard the bird. Just write the sound he hears. A flutter of wings filled my ears as a bird zipped by.
I felt the bird. Why not show them what they felt.
I smelled the bird. Explain what they smelled.
I thought the bird. Just give the thought, don’t tell me he thought it, just show it in italics.
All of these tricks make it feel more immediate and real. Readers half the time don’t even know when you’re committing the filter flaw. But the one who removes the filter has more fans. Readers probably don’t know why still, they just know they love that author. It’s not always detectable things that make or break a book.
Readers don’t need to be told the obvious. You don’t say someone said something right after they say it, it’s redundant. Jim glared at her. “I hope you’re happy,” he said. No shit? He just said that? Wow, glad you alerted me before he spoke, showed me, then repeated it after.
Same with… Jim glared at her. “Are you happy?” he asked. Glad you told me he asked, cause I wasn’t all too clear what the question mark meant.
The only time you need dialogue tags is to let the reader know who is talking. I find action tags work much nicer, as you can show actions with the dialogue and make it a richer experience. Jim nodded for ten seconds. “You think you’re so smart?” He slitted his shit brown eyes. “Well guess what? I’m the boss here.” He stormed off with toilet paper on his shoe.
No dialogue tags, just showing action tags.
Dialogue tags have a purpose. Only use them for that purpose. If you need a slight pause between sentences for flows sake, shoot for something besides the “he said/she said” put in some action instead of repeating the obvious.
But always mix it up. You can overdo anything. Too many action beats can take away from the content of the conversation. Mix it well.
I’m done. Hope this helps.
Visit Today : 3 
Total Visit :6095
Hits Today :4
Total Hits :23645
Who's Online :1
