The Scary Query (directions for Writers please)

I did this post a while back addressing the Writer’s nightmare phase known as The Query Phase.  (even sounds fraught with diseased contagions)

While chatting with a friend of mine, Captain Dirty Pants, and HATING on query letters n stuff, it occurred to me.  Why don’t Agents take an extra ten seconds in the REJECTION LETTER to tell poor pathetic wanna be Writers, what the hell is wrong with the query?

Just stop it, you might say.  Stop right there, I mean Slush Pile Readers and Agents are very very busy people, we don’t even begin to know the meaning of busy until we sit in their chair, walk in their shoes, drink from their cup of whatever they drink to keep their cool.

And this is not about making their life more busy, no, of course not, because Agents are our friends, they’re mothers, wives, husbands, you get it, they’re PEOPLE like me and you, the aspiring Writer.   So, this SOLUTION is with them in mind as well.


I think the Agency could create and incorporate a color coded chart to send with their generic rejection forms.  They would ascribe a color or colors for each rejection as the Agent/Slush Pile Reader wades through their endless queries.  It would go like: This query is definitely a “red” or “yellow” or “this one’s a combo of red and yellow” kind of thing.

Color Definitions (possible examples):

Red: Your query was a breath of fresh air, but if you look at the books we represent, you won’t find very many like yours. Our suggestion is to keep this query and target agents that represent these types of books.

Blue: Your query was confusing and we feel that it reflects on your ability or lack of it as a writer.

Yellow: Your query was full of spunk and very well written, but the story represented just lacked the appeal we feel necessary to chance investment.

Orange: There were a lot of grammatical errors and we wonder why the hell you’re in this profession if you can’t even construct a goddamn simple letter.

Brown: Your query reminded me of a giant terd, I made copies of it for wiping our ases here at the office.

Rainbow: There aren’t enough colors in the rainbow to describe your shit.

Black: Consider selling your body, because your soul is just not worth buying.

The bottom line.  I believe agents WANT to tell writers what’s good and bad in their query, if not to help direct them, then to at least get them out of the Slush Rush.  Chunking Writers into a pile doesn’t make them go away.  No, we’re like stubborn stains, and we didn’t come all this mother lovin way to just give up.   We’ve invested too much time, blood, sweat and tears to give up now.  So, seven times out of eight, we get rejected, have no real clue why, revise aimlessly, and three months later submit to the same Agent only to be rejected again; because the rejection wasn’t about the way the query was written but the content of the query itself, or perhaps something else, or a combination of things.  Ahhh, if we only knew.

Just a teeny tiny bit of direction will make it possible for Writers to collect enough rejection information from each agent to help lead us in a more coherent direction.

It may not change the world, but it would sure help change one very annoying [on both ends] aspect of the publishing industry.

So I’m asking:  Pretty Please– If you must take the time to reject at all, and you have the ability to contrive a generic form rejection, could you add a little COLOR to that form, thereby adding direction, to our rejection?


Aspiring Writers

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Naked Bare Back Muse Riders For Hire (oh yes)

Writer's Block 1

Writer’s Block 1 (Photo credit: NathanGunter)

I am re-posting this because…I NEED IT. I am writing (or attempting to) the fourth book in the Archangels Creed series, Summon Lyght. Now, I must summon the elusive muse that I must have to FINISH IT!!! DEADLINE APPROACHES!!!


 There are three types of Writers, I think.


  1. A Writer that pecks his/her heart onto the screen at a passionate pace.  (Or as inspiration dictates.  This can be BAM, or this can be months.) They write for fun or expression for various reasons.
  2. A Writer that pecks his/her heart onto the screen at a professional pace. (Within the time frame specified by their employer.) They may write for fun and artistic expression as well, but it is also a requirement.
  3. A Writer that pecks his/her heart onto the screen at a professional pace.  (As their own boss; Indie Publisher, and within the time frame they so choose.) They too may write for fun and artistic expression, but it is also a requirement. But one they make of themselves out of necessity.

Okay, maybe four types, motherfugnwriters being in a class all of their own.  But for points sake: There is a Grand Canyon difference between Writer number 1 (leisure Writer) and Writer number 2 (professional Writer).  And there is not much difference between Writer number 2 and 3 as far as performance goes.


But what makes number 1 so different from 2 and 3?



Have you ever seen Master Chess players do a timed match?  It seems impossible to major on quality when speed is a necessity.  Not only do you have to know the moves inside and out, you have to be fast at countering your opponent’s moves on the spot.


In order to be a successful professional anything, you have to master the skills of whatever it is you’re doing.  For chess players who want to play the speed game, they have to practice playing chess on a timer because it’s an entirely different set of skills required when the speed variable is introduced.


And the same is true with on-the-clock-creative-writing.


Now, this goes without saying that you need to be damn sure you know how to write before you try practicing writing fast.  So, take your time and learn the crafts involved with writing before you try to learn how to be quick at it.  Like I tell my children with their cursive writing, “Practice forming the letters correctly, and you will get fast at forming the letters correctly.  But skimp on forming them properly, and you will get fast at perfecting slop.”  You perfect what you practice, if you perfect ignorance, you will be perfectly ignorant.


So, assuming you know the craft well, the question some might ask is, can Pantsters write on a time schedule?  Of course they can.  Writing professionally doesn’t mean you have to change your method of creating, but your speed.


Don’t let anybody tell you that you can’t pants fast.  That would be classified under bullshit advice.  For the pantster, you’re writing is about to get a little more exciting because not only are you going to pants that story, you’re going to do it on the edge of your seat.  If you choose to pants write, then you’ll just become a Professional Pantster, you’ll create on the fly, fast.  Think it can’t be done?  Look at those rappers who bust out amazing rhymes on the fly in seconds.  Yes, they really do that.




Do we need to learn new skills to be a Professional Pantster?


Yes and no.


You don’t need to learn it cause you already know it, but you do need to be made aware of how you already know.  The great skill that you already have, that you’ll need is:  Multi-tasking.  


Well, we certainly got that shit.


Problem is, multi-tasking as mothers has become sort of instinctual.  It’s one of those things we don’t even notice we do, and we certainly couldn’t tell anybody how exactly we do it.


It’s time to break that skill down and look at its moving parts so that we can apply it to writing.  Whether we pants, or plot, or both, no matter, the skill is required.  Why?  Because as a Professional Writer, writing is no longer just a burning passion in our gut, it’s a burning passion in our gut on a timeline.  It is now a task.


It’s important to understand on how many levels we multi-task.   In order to do any task, several things are required.  We have to know what we’re going to do, why we’re doing it, how we’re going to do it, when we’re going to do it, then we coordinate.   It doesn’t seem coordinated to mothers because it becomes habit, the same way removing the keys from the ignition is a habit. (hopefully)


So, now that writing has become among the tasks, what now?


For most Writers, the advice would be, “Plant your ass in that chair, write, and  don’t move it till you’ve pounded out ten thousand words.”  Oh IF ONLY we could.  But this luxury the motherfugnwriter does not have.  Because before she’s a Writer, she’s a Mother and Wife.  Therefore, she always has one ear, one eye, one foot, one ass cheek, in that doorway between fiction and reality, operating in both worlds at the same time.


This is always the case, and that is how we’ve acquired the multi-tasking ability.


Now, once we coordinate the task of actually writing, the next big problem comes into play.


Moving the Muse.


How do we use our multi-tasking reflex to spank that muse and make him giddy up and ride hard?  How do we get that all elusive muse, that rebel without any obvious cause, to perform on a deadline? (yes, my muse is male)


Well, thankfully, the muse isn’t bound to chairs and schedules and places and nooks and times and moods like we often are.  He rides free in the universe, but thankfully, it’s a public universe.  And it’s not that he hides, it’s just sometimes he’s someplace we’re not, and we have to go where he is.


But honestly, I don’t have the time or energy to go hunting him down, so, I call him.


Call Your Muse?


Well, it beats the hell out of writing in 6th person from a distant galaxy. Isn’t that just what it feels like when you attempt to write without proper inspiration? Like you’re light years away from the intimacy you need with your writing and characters? So, yes, call your muse. 1-800-A-MUSE-ME-



Bet you never noticed what you did that made the muse come.  Oh, you thought he just happened by?  No dear, you called him.  You hungered.  You stoked.  You asked.  And he came.


So poetic.


How about we switch to realistic. I’m going to step out of fiction for a second and rename the muse.  Let’s call it… your creativity.  Are you familiar with the term, “get your juices flowing” ?  That’s what happens, something occurs that gets our juices flowing. But what? What were we doing that brought the muse, or got our creative juices flowing?

Could it have been any of the following: Reading other creative work… listening to creative music… looking at amazing art… talking about amazing things…talking about your story…thinking about your story…life giving you ideas about your story…


Creativity breeds creativity.


Spend all day writing sex scenes and see what you want to do when your husband returns.  What got the juices going?


Talking about it.

Thinking about it.

Writing about it.

Reading it.

Listening to it.

Watching it.

All of these things masturbate that juice mechanism within us.


So, whatever juice you need to force, then force it with whatever makes it “come”. (sorry, my whoremones bring out my phallusophical side)


So, there we have it.  What simple creatures we really are.  Your emotions, your juices are for YOU to command and manipulate.  Find out what gets them going and do it, put on those Nike heels and make it happen.


You’re a Professional Writer, but you’re also a Mother and Wife with mad skills, and multi-tasking is one you must exploit the hell out of in this endeavor.  You’re on a time-table, but it’s your table, and your time to manipulate. You’re not changing your destination, you’re not changing your route, you’re just leaning low, grabbing a handful of mane, gripping that thick warm body between your legs, and riding your muse hard.


And that’s why I’m going to make t-shirts called… Motherfugn Muse Riders.



This is where I make that kinda stuff:  Writer’s T-shirts. You tell me what you want, I’ll make it.


Of course I have regular Muse Rider stuff for all the rest.


Sorry, we can’t all be superfrignfantastic. ;)


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For The Mother, Wife, Writer: AKA Motherfugnwriter

This pic has nothing to do with the post.

Except that it’s beautiful.

Like me.

*blink blink smile blink*


Anywho, I wrote the below stuff a while back for a blog I used to have called “Motherfugnwriter” I’d say I was maybe two years into my writing adventure which has turned into a career. It is so very interesting to see how I used to think. I expected to see areas of immaturity and profound ignorance, but what do I find? I find me, unedited, and as wise of a wiseass as ever I was. I want to remain this way–raw and real.

A few tips for all you Mother-Fugn-Writers out there.

1. Never be at the computer when your husband returns from work if you were at it when he left. He’ll likely, (maybe subconsciously?) conclude you’ve been there all day. This also applies to having the baby in a high chair and or walker or jumper.

2. Remember that you’re a wife first, and your crazy characters second. (Mothers fit into any category, so you’re fine there.) It’s all about appearing normal and not unhealthily submersed into your story. Set aside some time to ask questions that look like you really care. But not about work, once they clock out at the job, they don’t want to rehash usually. Talk about the kids, your job at home that you never leave. Talk about your accomplishments (not in the book) but in the house. The laundry, that stain you finally got out. Your sad little life is just the picture they need to feel needed, smart, and important. Motherfuckingwriters really understand this more than they’ll ever know.

3. You need to make sure and attend family functions at least once a month or he’ll begin to suspect the truth. It’s not healthy that you like being with your story more than your family that you never get away from. So, be sure and hide that one well, go to the park, McDonalds, whatever.  Use that time to do a lot of the mental work in your story.  Take a notpad for writing a list of groceries and use it to take important notes at the same time.

4. It would benefit you to to take up writing or reading romance if you don’t already. Erotica preferrably because motherfuckingwriters especially need this chemical motivation. In fact, if you tell them this particular genre is your passion, they’ll likely be very supportive and make sure you have every resource at your fingertips to ensure the success of such a beautiful and fulfilling pass-time.

5. Joy, pleasure, physical excercise, peace of mind. Sex is like a total body work out. Don’t neglect it. Like dynamite, if you use it right, your life will explode with joy and satisfaction. Use it wrong, and your life just explodes. Kids and all.

6. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. And the stomach is governed by the penis. Sex is the root cause of all problems. The good news is, it’s also the solution.

7. There will come a time when you’ll be in a crunch to get something written. Feign sickness. (I don’t say this lightly, use this SPARINGLY, preferrably when a sickness is going around) It gains you a ton of time because there’s no personal hygiene, house cleaning, elaborate meals, or sex obligations.

8. Refrain from calling your husband or your children by your character’s names. If you slip up, laugh and tell them you did it on purpose and just wanted to see how they would react.  Say it was a homework assignment in that ‘How To’ book you’re supposedly reading to help make you a best-selling author.

9. On the mother side of things, multitask, multitask, multitask. Let the kids swim in the small pool with baby shampoo. In their clothes. Teach them responsibility by training them in chores until they are proficiently doing theirs and yours. With rewards. It makes them happy, and the motherfuckingwriter much more productive.

10. And don’t, whatever you do, tell anybody that knows you as a mother and wife, that you write. They will look at you like they no comprehend-ay english-ay. They can’t get it. Not even if they’re high.



Check Out My Beautiful Blog!!! Yay!!!


So, I had to make a new post just so I could get people over to see my new look. I went from dark to LIGHT. I love it! I am ready for the HOLIDAYS!!! JD Stockholm, you have a new Christmas maniac to contend with!!!


I want it to snow so bad so we can make


a REAL snow man!

But we live in Louisiana!!!! But that just means it makes it more exciting to hope and pray for SNOW which we do every single year! Pray that is!

And if it doesn’t snow, that’s OKAY. We’ll just have

snowman cookies!!!






And to top off this excitement, we are celebrating CHRISTMAS for the first time in fifteen years!!! Yes, I know, crazy. Why didn’t we celebrate it before? Difference of religious opinion! Why are we celebrating it now? I threatened to DIVORCE!!! BAAHHAHAHA No, that wasn’t the only reason I threatened, of course, what do you think I am, a crazy mother with nine kids???

Anywho, my husband got a wake up call and he has agreed to let me celebrate Christmas with the kids. So, many of my kids will have their VERY FIRST CHRISTMAS this year!!!

Can I tell you how very thrilled I am?



I will get them a lot of presents but I will NOT make it all about getting.

We are making shoe boxes for the homeless in ourbow-22254_640

city this year and filling it with stuff. I have tons of

ideas to make our first Christmas special and amazing!Okay, that’s it! Bye!




P.S. I do plan on getting back to blogging here, real soon. Specially now that I love my website *blinks rapidly with huge smile*

ta ta for nowcollage-143793_640


Silly Erotic Romance Writers

erotic romance writers (2)

A lot of erotic romance writers are looked down on by other mainstream writers in other genres. For some reason, some people seem to think that writing sex is the easiest thing in the world. I mean, what can be so hard? Aren’t you this slutty woman who has lots of hot sex and then you go write about it?


I should ask the same of a horror writer. Don’t you just go murder lots of people and then write about it?


Erotic romance writers half the time, maybe even majority, are normal women that like to write stories that appeal to them, plain and simple. Stories that maybe they’d like to live. Stories they may even try and live. Or maybe they write stories they’d never live except on the page. And then of course there will always be those who think sex is all anybody wants and go overboard and write a sex fest and neglect the other important factors of life that make it feel like a real experience and not a peek only into the character’s bedroom.  



So the question is, how hard is writing erotic romance?


Most male writers I know dread writing the sex scene. They usually either don’t, purple prose it to death, or make goofy porn.   


Writing erotic romance is an art in the extreme sense that writing horror is, I think. There are elements at play in the horror scene that most readers and a lot of writers aren’t even aware of. It’s the same with erotic romance.



Writing one good sex scene isn’t that hard (for most) but writing an entire book with a lot of sex scenes is a challenge. How do you keep it from becoming redundant? You have only so many main body parts that come into play with a limited set of words by which to refer to them without risking ridiculosity. 


Every sex scene has to feel unique, must capture the individuality of the characters within each unique scene. All the same body parts are in play, same terms for the most part, but because they’re wrapped in a different mood, different setting, different circumstance, different emotion, it gives it that new feel. It’s not that you haven’t read these characters having sex, but you’ve not read them having sex while talking about religion or seducing each other with food, or indulging in  sexual activity that is maybe silly, difficult, unfamiliar, or risky, even. It’s like you serve ice cream every time but the manner in which you serve it, makes it a new flavor.



Every thing comes into play. The speed. The emotion. Are we going to have a light, fun, happy, emotional, dramatic, rough, dark, angry, afraid, sex scene? Are we going to have a slow seduction within any of those above parameters? A mix of those parameters? Perhaps we will encompass all of them within a long scene. Or maybe we will do hard and fast and be done. 


I think writing sex is like dancing. The setting and the situation you put your characters in determines the dance. If this is going to be a slow dance, we set the mood for slow. We usually show more and tell less. And if we do tell, we are careful with our word choices, we maybe break rules and use “ing” words to create a shwingy slingy (slingy not the best word choice in a romantic background, but comedic romantic, yes) sexy groove and feeling. We can even bring in the element of surprise, the reader thinks it’s going to be one thing and boom, it’s another. The key is in the mixing. 



If you’re going to write a scene that is equivalent to dirty dancing, you’re going to use hard concise terms, hard verbs, short sentences even. You may be crass, vulgar, bold. You’re creating a mood with tension, just like in an action scene.



It’s not just the words you choose but how you lay them in the sentence. Passive sentences have a purpose in some situations. A good writer will study and see when the passive voice serves the mood and when the active voice does. When showing breaks a mood and telling builds it. Or the reverse. We learn to mix it up, creating a unique dance step not easily duplicated due to the fact that these are your characters in this situation experiencing this one thing. 


And then there’s the standard tools we use to create an illusion of variation. The question, the statement, the command, the exclamation, the thought fragment, etc. Then we color all of those with voice. Good voice sounds like you’re in a person’s head even in third person. When you do it correctly, you forget you’re reading a story, the words disappear and this person is alive and speaking to you.



Speaking of disappearing, one of the greatest challenges I think in writing anything is learning how to not write. How to make the words disappear, the formats, the standards, the tropes, the cliches. Again it’s a collective art, and all of the above must be practiced in order to produce that “experience” that “mood” that “feeling” To make a reader feel is a wonderful thing, but it’s also an art. A manipulative art. It’s understanding them even when they don’t. It’s moving them into a place they would never go had you not led them.



Erotic romance writers face the challenge of not seeming like they’re all about sex. Because really, we’re not. Not hardly. We’re about complete experiences. Three dimensional experiences. Personally, I think the story with romance and no sex is incomplete. It’s like murder behind closed doors. You only know it happened, but you didn’t “experience” it.



But, a lot of people don’t want to experience the erotic romance because well, it makes them aroused and that isn’t the experience they are wanting. For a lot of women it’s awesome, it helps to inspire them to erotic love, not just erotic sex (to me, that’s a huge difference) and that can be a great thing. 


But it’s not for everybody. Just like gore isn’t for everybody for whatever reason. 


Anyway, that’s about it. I just wanted to share some of the things I’ve come to learn about writing erotic romance and to say, it is certainly an art and an art to be proud of. And it’s not an art just anybody can write without being trained to do so.

Thanks for reading.


Why Kill Babies When You Can Harvest Them?

It’s me, once again trying to save the planet in some odd way or another. Today, I’m trying to save writers a little time and trouble.

We’ve all heard that saying: You have to kill the baby. Well, this is going to be a very short article on this topic. Mostly because there’s not a whole lot to say about it.

First, get the baby killing notion out of your head. In this day and artistic age, we don’t KILL anything, we recycle life. Waste not, want not.

Now what is a baby by definition?

It’s the collection of a lot of thoughts that form one coherent story.  We hope.

Usually, it’s the forming of the parts and not the parts themselves that need killing. You have a lot of great thoughts but maybe your ability to string them together is what needs to go under the knife. Maybe you need to learn how to make a baby before you go bibbity bobbitee booing your wand in people’s face.

But assuming you can make a baby–and have–and there’s something awfully wrong with yours, you don’t need to get all freaky or depressed about it and toss the whole baby over the cliff. Find out what’s wrong with it and fix it. But don’t kill a damn thing.

This is the point of the article. We don’t kill babies we operate on them. And when you do perform surgeries, don’t hack things and toss them in the trash, God forbid. You save them in a jar for future babies. Why throw away a perfectly good arm or foot when you can use it on another baby?

So just stop doing that. From now on, create a new folder. Title it “Harvested Baby Parts” and put all your muse’s awesome bastardized baby parts in it and stop filling the creative stratosphere with all that “wanna-be” confetti.

doctor smiley




You’re welcome.


Do you Pants your life and Plot your stories? Plot your life and Pants your story

I was wondering that.

So, I’m asking this question to see if I can discover the answer to that.

If you’re a writer, how do create your story? How do you live your life?


For me, I both plot and pants my story. But my life is extremely plotted due to the fact that I have so many children and things to do. 

What about you?



teddy presentation for blog

I’ll let you decide the answer to that heading. I’m dedicating a week of my blog to my hero, and my best male friend, JD Stockholm. He’s been through it all and then some. His real life nightmare begins as a child, a hurricane of madness tearing through him to leave him stranded on an island of silent death. A place where you exist alone, among the living, pretending to not be dead and yet wishing you could be. Caught between here and there, in a place called nowhere.

Now that he is broken to pieces, he is left to rebuild something he cannot begin to fathom. A normal man.

We cannot fix him no matter how much we’d love to.

We cannot go back and change the past.

We cannot murder the people who hurt him.

But what we can do is listen. And learn. 

This is why he tells his story. Not only to voice the pain and the hurt and the unthinkable betrayal…but to tell us. All these years, he couldn’t tell. Now he is. We can help him heal, if we open our hearts and our minds to an ugly hard to hear thing, and listen.

You will notice that these books are told in the voice of him as a child. A voice he is still very in tune with.  

His story begins with Book One: (click the book to buy it)

Dear Teddy (Part 1)

 These excerpts will be hard to read and will depict how many people he was abused by and what sort of abuse he endured. But I want you to suck it up and listen no matter how hard it is to hear. He lived this and he needs to tell it, we need to hear it.


 She made my other medicine in my cow cup. It was more runny than the day before. Runny and sticky and orange. I wondered if it tasted like oranges.

             Strawberries and orange for medicine.

 She put the spoon in my mouth. It nearly made my mouth explode. Maybe my eyes did pop out of my head again. I couldn’t breathe. She held my mouth shut to stop the medicine coming out because my lips didn’t want to close. My tongue burnt down my neck. It was hot and I wanted to cough. I couldn’t cough because my mum had hold of my mouth.  


My neck hurt so much. I coughed nearly some more. It was like hot snot in my nose. It made my eyes cry again.  My mum told me to sit on the stool. She went to the back door and smoked a cigarette.


My brother came in the kitchen. He had finished his food. He had a toy. He wanted to play. He put his car on my knee. I watched it when it rolled onto the floor. He picked it up and put it back. I let it roll off again. I didn’t want to play. I wasn’t allowed to play.  He tried to give it to me again. In my hands. I pushed it away. He laughed and tried again. I don’t know why I did it. It was my badness. I kicked him. He fell on the floor and cried.


I was sorry.  My mum saw. She ran and pulled me so hard with my arm maybe she was going to fling me away. She pulled my pyjama pants down and slapped my legs. I couldn’t stop it, the sickness in my tummy. It came out and made me jump. It landed on my feet. It landed on my mum’s feet. She was mad with me.  The sick made my mum let go. She dropped me to the ground and stepped back.


She picked my brother up and took him into the back room. I sat in my sick. I hugged my tummy and cried because I didn’t feel well. I cried because I had been bad and my dad wouldn’t take me to the library. And I cried because it scrunched up inside.  


My mum came back in the kitchen. She didn’t shout. She didn’t smack me. She didn’t talk. I didn’t move. I knew she would be more mad if I made more mess. I couldn’t be bad more. I was bad enough.   She went to the kitchen sink and filled a bucket it with water. She got the cleaning powder and tipped some in the water. Then she came to me and told me to stand up. I did. She took off my pyjamas. She put them in the bucket and used them to clean the floor too.  


Then she filled the sink with water and cleaning powder. The sink was big. It was like a bath.  She picked me up. I tried to wriggle. The water was too hot. It hurt my feet and my legs. I screamed and cried. I tried to pick my feet up. I tried to get away from the water.  She told me to shut up. She said that I had to stop making a noise because I would disturb the neighbours.


She got my cow cup and filled it with water. She poured it down my legs. I screamed at her. She slapped me and told me to stop it. I put my hands on my face to squash away the scream. I squeezed my fingers on my face. Maybe I could pull it off.  When I was clean my mum lifted me out of the sink. My skin was all red. I told my mum I hated her. I told her that I wasn’t her friend any more. I said it over lots of times. I wanted her to be sad. I wanted her to cry that I wasn’t her friend. I wanted her to be sorry. I said it lots and lots, but she didn’t get sad.  

The nightmare continues in book two: (click the book to buy it)


The Bad Man

I love my Mr. Ted. He is all mine and he is magic. He keeps me safe from the bad man. I hug him all tight. We sit on the floor by the fire. I don’t be allowed to sit on the chairs. I am too evil. Me and Mr. Ted like to write stories. He tells me what to write. Then I draw the pictures about it and we make it all nice. I put it in my scrap book.


My Nan bought me the scrap book. It is big and has lots of pages. It has a car on the front and my name. I write about all my stories inside it. I don’t write about the bad man though. I don’t tell anyone about the bad man. He can hear me. He reads minds. Mr. Ted keeps him away. My mum says she doesn’t want to hear about it. But the bad man makes me scared in my tummy. Mr. Ted says don’t tell anyone. If I do then the bad man will come and get me.


My mum says he’s a demon. He is from the devil like me. But I’m not a demon. I’m just evil. But my mum is going to make me all better. She gives me medicine. The medicine doesn’t get to work yet. That’s why the bad man comes at night. Then he does the hurt thing. It makes me scared. Mr. Ted says it’s a secret. The bad man bites me and scratches me. Then I don’t get away. My mum doesn’t hear me shout. The bad man makes me go to sleep.


The Father 


My mum opens the back door and lets me inside. She doesn’t shout at me. The headmistress didn’t tell her. She tells me to go into the backroom and be quiet because my brother is eating.  She didn’t get me any chips. I don’t want any. I am too bad to eat nice things. I don’t hug Mr. Ted. I am too bad to get Mr. Ted hugs. He doesn’t say anything about it. I sit in the corner. I can smell my brother’s chips. They have vinegar on them. They smell very nice. I get my Lego and put it on my tummy. I dig it all in to make it hurt.


My tummy gets a red line and then it bleeds. I am just a bad stupid boy that gets to be evil all the time. I won’t ever be good. My dad comes home too. I hear his big giant motorbike. Then I see the back gate open through the window and he puts his bike in the shed. My mum goes outside to the shed. She has a cigarette in her mouth. She is shouting at my dad. She shouts at him about my badness at school.


My dad comes in the house. He comes in the back room. “Stand up,” he shouts at me. I stand up and he does the stare thing. “Well?” he says. But I don’t know what I have to say. “Do you have something to tell me about school?” My tummy has the sick inside. Maybe my badness wants to come out. I don’t want to tell my dad about it. He will get all mad and then he will shout at me.


“Take your shorts off,” my dad says.


I don’t want to. I don’t want him to do the hurt thing. “I’m sorry,” I tell my dad. I can’t stop the crying from coming out. I don’t be able to help it. I tell him I won’t ever do it again. He keeps saying to take my shorts off. He says it loud and then he shouts in my face. My hands shake lots. My head wants to pop because I cry very bad. I wish my dad knew I was very sorry. I tell him lots of times. I can’t get my shorts off.


My dad grabs my arm. He pulls my shorts down and pushes me at the wall. My shorts get stuck at my monster boots. I nearly fall on the floor. I hear my dad’s belt get open. I cry and tell him I am sorry. I don’t want him to put his thing inside. He hits my bottom and my legs with his belt. It hurts very bad and I scream very loud.


My brother starts to cry too. But my dad doesn’t hit him. My dad shouts at me and tells me to stop the crying. He hits me again with his belt. He shouts lots of times for me to ‘shut the hell up.’ I bite my hand. Then I keep my cries inside. My dad puts his belt back on then he goes outside to smoke a cigarette. I hug the wall. I am sorry for being bad.

Book Three (click the book to buy it)

Part Three

 I would like to open with an introduction to my favorite character in both fiction and non-fiction…Stupid Boy. A failure in his mind, a hero to the world.


There was a boy. His name was Stupid Boy. He had a stupid cape and stupid boots and he looked stupid with his stupid hair. He lived in a house that was by the sea with no mum and dad because no one wanted to live with Stupid Boy.


They got to laugh at him and call him names. His mum and dad didn’t let him live in their house too because they didn’t like him. No one in the whole wide world liked Stupid Boy.


Stupid boy lived with a lady. She didn’t get to be stupid like him. She was nice and kind. She was the only one that liked Stupid Boy. Stupid Boy wanted to be like Superman. He got a cape one day and tried to fly. But the cape didn’t work because stupid boys don’t get to fly.


Stupid Boy wanted to be a secret spy. But he didn’t be able to do that because he didn’t be very good at spying on things.  He had to make his stupids go away. One day, Stupid Boy and the Lady went into town to buy some things. It got to be a rainy day and Stupid Boy forgot his coat. He got all wet when the rain got through his clothes. He closed his eyes and he made a big wish. “Maybe the rain will make my stupids go away,” he said. He closed his eyes tight and then he wished the hardest he ever could.


The rain didn’t make his stupids go away. Stupid Boy and the Lady went in the shops because the Lady needed to buy food. Stupid Boy ate it all up because he was too greedy and so she had to buy more and more. Maybe the shop would sell beans. Like the ones that Jack got for his beanstalk. But not beans that were green and growed up into the sky.


Maybe beans that jumped and made Stupid Boy not be stupid any more. Stupid Boy asked the Lady for some jumping beans. She said yes and bought him some. Stupid Boy got the magic beans. But they didn’t grow beanstalks and they didn’t make him jump all the way in the sky. The beans just jumped about in his hands. Stupid Boy put them in his pocket.


When the food was all bought and then it got into bags. The Lady asked Stupid Boy if he could be a good boy and help her carry them home. Stupid Boy knew how to pretend to be a good boy. He said yes and then he got a bag and carried it. Stupid Boy’s legs got tired on the way home. He got an idea. A big fat stupid idea. He asked the Lady if he could hold her hand when they walked. She said yes. Stupid Boy held the Lady’s hand and they walked. Stupid Boy closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleepwalk and the Lady didn’t let him walk into the road.


Stupid boy stepped on the cracks. Everyone knew if you step on the cracks makes you fall and break your back. Stupid Boy falled over and bashed his knee. Stupid Boy falled over and everyone got to see. Because he was stupid. The Lady knew how to make Stupid Boy better. It didn’t be the medicine his mum got him. That didn’t work. The Lady decided that to make his stupids go away they had to chop off his head with a big axe. Then he didn’t be Stupid Boy anymore.


The End.

More of His Father

I put my pyjamas and I fold them all up and put them right in the middle so they are in the right place and I don’t get told off. Then I get my slippers and I put them with the other shoes and I make them in a nice neat line. My mum doesn’t get mad at me when everything is in the right place. Mr. Ted thinks it is good.


I go in the kitchen and then I make that all nice and tidy too. My dad tells me to sit on the chair again. He asks me if I have decided about the lesson. I shake my head. I don’t look at him. I look at my feet and then I  sit on the chair and not move at all. My dad gets a bowl of cornflakes and then he puts it on the table in front of me.


He sits down in the chair that is next to me. He tells me to eat it. It is for me. I tell my dad thank you. I don’t feel hungry in my tummy. But I get the bowl and then I get the cornflakes and put some in my mouth. My mouth doesn’t want to chew it all up. I don’t be able to stop the crying from coming. It makes me not be able to eat my cereal because my mouth wants to cry and then my throat doesn’t want to swallow it. Maybe I will get the sick out of my tummy.


My dad does the stare thing. But he doesn’t have his angry face. He just stares at me. I don’t want to look at him because he is too mad at me for the glass. I am just so bad. Maybe they will send me away forever. I don’t ever be good. My dad tells me to stop the crying. I try to make it go away. I nod my head and squeeze it all away.


I sit on the chair all day long. My legs get tired and then they feel like they are invisible. I shiver because it is cold by the door. My dad says I can only move when I set the table. Then I am allowed to go to the bathroom too. My dad has a study upstairs. He sits there and reads or draws or does some work things. I don’t know if I am allowed to get off the chair. But my dad says when I have decided I have to find him and tell him.


I am scared in my tummy when I go up the stairs. Maybe he will be mad at me. But I get up there and then I knock on the door and he tells me to come in. I tell him that I have an answer. He says that’s good and tells me to wait until he is finished reading. I stand there a long time. I don’t move. My legs are sore and I try to let my feet move a little bit. My dad tells me to stand still because I am making him not be able to read his book.


I look at the clock my dad has. It is on top of the fire place. My mum got it for his birthday. It has spinning balls at the bottom and is all gold. The little hand is at the eight and then it is on the nine. It goes nearly all the way to ten. Then my dad finishes his book and he puts it down and says it is bedtime. I ask my dad if we can read a book at bedtime. Maybe I can tell him I am sorry. I squeeze myself all tight because maybe he will want to shout at me about asking.


But he says yes and it is a good idea. He tells me to go and get my pyjamas on and then get in the big bed. I do what I am told. I get in the bed. I take Mr. Ted too. I hug him all tight. I lie there and then my dad comes and he gets in bed too. I tell my dad I am sorry for the glass door. I tell him it is on accident and I don’t mean it. I say I wouldn’t ever do it again. I don’t be able to stop the crying again. I always cry like a big fat stupid baby.


I try to hug my dad too. He lets me lie on his arm. I hug him lots. Me and Mr. Ted do it. Then my dad tells me to turn around and he tells me I don’t need to cry about it. He gets the book and starts to read it and I don’t move his hand when he gets my pants off. My dad does the hurt thing. I hug Mr. Ted very tight and I am like Andrew. I am invisible and then we play. 


Abuse From Strangers (Where his parents sent him)

My mum and dad say I can go to a special place for the summer time. There are lots of fun things to do. Lots of other children will be there. I get to sleep there too. Like a big giant sleepover. I don’t be able to wait. I don’t be allowed to tell lots of people about it. “They’ll think we’re made of money,” my mum says. “I don’t want people knowing what we have and getting burgled.”


I tell my mum I won’t tell anyone. Not ever. I make a big promise and cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye. I ask Mr. Ted about that. Maybe someone bad gets to come. Like the bad man. Then he sticks needles in my eyes for being a liar. But I don’t be. I won’t tell anyone about the fun place. It’s a secret. I tell Mr. Ted and Sheba shush about it and they do.


I get to go on Thursdays. It is summer time so I don’t have to go to school. I stay at my mum and dad’s all summer long. My mum thinks I will be bored. So the church asked her if I wanted to go to the fun summer place, and she said yes. Then I don’t get bored. My mum is very nice. My brother doesn’t get to go though. He is too little…..


…… We stand there and the man shuts the gate. They are big, giant, black gates. He gets a chain on them and a lock. My dad has chains and locks on his bikes sometimes, then maybe no one can steal them. Maybe someone wants to steal the gates. There are spikes on the top. “If anyone tries to climb over the gates, they will slip and the gates will get stuck in their bellies. They will have to stay on the gate forever,” the man says.


I don’t know why anyone will climb on them. They are very high. We go in the house. It is a big white house but it doesn’t have nice shiny windows. Not like lots of houses. It has a board. Maybe the window is smashed. Maybe that is why there gets to be a chain on the gate and a lock. They even have guard dogs. Big black dogs. They stand there with chains on their necks. But maybe they don’t have locks in them.


The other two children follow the man in the house and then maybe I have to do the same. The house smells all bad. Like hot pee. It makes my tummy want to do the turn thing. It smells like cigarettes too and the beer my dad drinks from his tin cans. I don’t know what I am supposed to do. No one tells me and I don’t want to be bad. Maybe my dad will come and shout at me about it.


There is another man there too. He takes my bag off me and throws it on a table. Then he takes my hand. The man takes me up the stairs. We get to go in a room that has a sofa and a table and a television. I don’t ever know a house that has the lounge upstairs. The man tells me to sit down and wait there. I do. I have to be good. I wish I get Mr. Ted with me or Andrew or Sheba and then we can all sit and be very good and not get in any trouble….. ****


This part of the story was very difficult for JD to write. There is a lot of shame involved here. For this reason, I’m not going to post any more of it here. It’s such a tug of war in my spirit with his books, everything in me, my instincts say burn the books, burn what they did, but then that leaves him to live and deal with the nightmares alone. If listening is what he needs, it’s the very least I can do. As a mother, a friend, a sister. But I prefer this section to not be on the public forum.

Excerpt from his final book being released in a few weeks:

jd stocholm book 4 coverTitle: Goodbye Teddy (death of a broken boy, resurrection of a broken man)[subtitle mine]

“He knows if you tell lies,” my mum says. “He watches everything. That’s why he won’t go away, because you attract the evilness.”


I want my mum to shush. I hug Mr. Ted very tight. I don’t want her to talk about him. I know she means the bad man. He gets mad when I tell someone. I don’t be allowed to. Then he will come and maybe he makes everyone die. He is magic. He knows lots of things. He hears if I tell. He hears when I am bad too. Then he comes and makes it all hurt. I don’t want him to be mad. My tummy turns upside down about it and my eyes want to cry. I don’t tell lies. Not ever. I know the bad man can see everything. I tell Mr. Ted in my brain to tell the bad man I don’t tell lies.


He knows everything. He will bite and scratch me and do the hurt thing.


If I am a good boy then he doesn’t come. He doesn’t come at my Nan’s house anymore because I don’t let the badness get out. Mr. Ted and Andrew tell me when things get bad. Then I make it stop. I tell my mum I won’t tell lies. I say I promise. I make the letter P sound all big. Then it is a real promise. I feel the letter on my lips. I say it lots of times.


“Stop making stupid noises,” my mum says. But I don’t know how to make it stop. It keeps my badness away. I hug Mr. Ted more tight. Please don’t let the bad man come.


“I have a picture of him,” my mum says. “because he won’t go away. We got special people in the house who can see evil things and they set all the cameras up and then when I put you to bed, you shouted and he was there, be we didn’t see him. The people got a picture of him. They didn’t let me see because he has such a bad face. Maybe you want to see it when we get home?”


I shake my head fast. So fast maybe it makes me dizzy and falls off. I don’t ever want to look at it. Not ever. I wish would to go away. I promise I don’t tell lies. 



That’s the end of the line for now. In a few weeks, JD will come out with his fourth and final book, concluding this hellacious journey. If you’re a spiritual person, I ask that you pray for his healing, and for the healing of all those like him. Also, share his work, because in doing so, you educate a multitude of an atrocity that happens behind the doors of many homes. Perhaps it will help you to recognize some of the signs and respond, or perhaps it will give you understanding of children in a way that you hadn’t before, enabling you to be a better parent. Either way, you would be helping a survivor. And helping is something we all love to do. 


The Female Orgasm (What does that feel like?)


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 vs Affucktion? Romance Writer’s Musings

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?


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.