Confessions of a Literary Streetwalker: No Muse Is Good News

(the following is part of an ongoing series of columns I did for The Erotica Readers & Writers Association on the ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs of writing good smut)


People sometimes ask me about my muse. In other words, where I get the ideas for stories, or how I work.

I hate the idea of a muse and have to bite back the response that I had one once but I clubbed it into submission and now keep it chained up in my basement.

The reason I hate the idea of a muse is that, for me, it takes the responsibility for creation away from the artist and puts it in control of another. "We don't write stories," the muse seems to say, "but we give them as gifts to special people."

Bunk.

Here on earth, we have the writers who feel they have to wait until a story 'speaks' to them, or for a visit from their very own personal muse. Not to put down other writer's habits, but this also strikes me as bunk. Now, I'm the first to say that what writers do is extraordinary; damned near magical. After all, one person creating a work that can live for decades, centuries, and change millions of lives -- if that's not incredible, I don't know what is.

Incredible, yes. Handed down from beyond -- no. Not at all. Shakespeare, Homer, Hemmingway, Steinbeck, Vonnegut, Pynchon, Woolf, Mishima. Make up your own list. These men and women didn't have anything you don't already have. No angelic or alien visitations, no mutant genes, no Formula X, no extraordinary gifts. They had brains and minds and worked very, very hard.

Of course that's simplistic, but that doesn't make it any less valid a point: what did they have that you don't have? What do they have that I don't have?

What does any of this have to do with writing erotica? Well, more than you think. Creativity, ingenuity with language, craft, flair, insight, wit, observation -- these are all things that come with work, with practice, with trying, with experimenting. Not once, but over and over again.

Where is this coming from? Well, every once and a while when I put out a call for submissions for an anthology -- or hear other writers talking about someone's project -- I will hear someone say "Oh, I could never do that," or "That's not my kind of book," and I think about muses.

That kind of attitude, that a writer has to be "inspired" to write to a certain theme, or even a certain type of story, reminds me of that myth, that a story has to 'come' to a writer.

Good example: write me a Transgendered Erotica story. Okay, I agree the subject is a bit daunting but don't let that stop you. Think about it, play with it, do some research. What does gender mean? Who are you? What could you be? What must it be like to have been born one way, but know you should have been the other? What does our society say about sex and gender? Does there have to be only men, only women?

Think, read, play -- and write. No muse is going to ring your doorbell and say "Have I got a story for you!" You have to do it yourself, you have to sit down (or walk around) and think, dream, stretch your creativity, and do it yourself.

That's the trick, you see -- where this circle I've been drawing connects up. To be a better writer you have to work at it. Try new things, new techniques, new styles, new markets. Who knows, you might be the best damned transsexual writer ever, maybe you'll write a really great story, maybe you'll only write a good story, maybe your story will suck -- but no matter the result, you've stretched yourself, tried something new. Inspiration and craft are not gifts from above, they're what happens when you put yourself out there and try new things.

As I like to say, the only time a writer fails is when they either give up writing, or simply don't try.

So try. Don't wait for inspiration. Don't wait for just the right market, don't wait for anything. Write. That's the only magic in a writer's life: the writing.

I agree

Just stumbled across this piece about the impact of the net on professional writers (from 10 Zen Monkeys). A lot of the writers made excellent points but this from Douglas Rushkoff said it the best:

I'd say that it's great for writing as a cultural behavior, but maybe not for people who made their livings creating text. There's a whole lot more text out there, and only so much time to read all this stuff. People spend a lot of their time reading text on screens, and don't necessarily want to come home and read text on a page after that. Reading a hundred emails is really enough daily reading for anyone.

The book industry isn't what it used to be, but I don't blame that on the internet. It's really the fault of media conglomeration. Authors are no longer respected in the same way, books are treated more like magazines with firm expiration dates, and writers who simply write really well don't get deals as quickly as disgraced celebrities or get-rich-quick gurus.

This makes it harder for writers to make a living writing. To write professionally means being able to craft sentences and paragraphs and articles and books that communicate as literature. Those who care about such things should rise to the top.

But I think many writers — even good ones — will have to accept the fact that books can be loss-leaders or break-even propositions in a highly mediated world where showing up in person generates the most income.

Old Hat For Me

*Old Hat: 1800's slang for a woman's privities, as they were frequently felt

Q: What occurs when a non-trivial smut author finds himself with bookmarks too streaked with dubious bodily fluids to post on his erstwhile 'professional' blog?

Q: What happens when a digger-up of secrets, an examiner of the weird and the bizarre, finds himself with items too crusty with suspicious discharges for a doubtfully 'entertaining' blog?

Q: What results when the aforementioned non-trivial smut author /digger-up of secrets determines that he has far too many ridiculous deadlines, social commitments, familiar responsibilities, financial obligations and that one more creative obligation will most definitely push him over the edge into a plummet that can only end in an all-area disaster?

A: he starts frequently felt - a brand new blog!

What is frequently felt? Aside from it's literal meaning as an obscure reference to female genitalia (see above), frequently felt is a place too streaked with dubious bodily fluids for M.Christian.com and too crusty with suspicious discharges for Meine Kleine Fabrik: it's a place for weird and wonderful and wicked and warped sexually explosive postings. Or, as the blog itself cryptically puts it:

Being a lobcock of erotic trivialities, oddities, and miscellanea transcribed with jaundiced talent for naught but a boxing Jesuit indulgence by a disreputable posse mobilitatis

So you are cordially invited to come to frequently felt to see things you'd never seen, should ever see, and will probably regret ever seeing - except for when you see things you'd always wanted to see, should have always seen, and will always remember seeing.

Priorities

Perversion for Profit

Via the Amalgamated Erotica Corp site, of which I will speak more of very soon ....

The View From Here: The Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine

(the following is part of an ongoing 'column' I did for Suspect Thoughts, and, no, it's not supposed to make sense: only be weird fun)

Congratulations on your purchase of the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine. Utilizing the finest in Hack Technology, we at Write Way guarantee that if correctly used and maintained the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine can give you years of successfully written columns of any length and subject.

After removing the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine from its ecologically protective shipping container, place it in a convenient location where it will be away from direct sunlight, moisture, dirt or dust, or undue criticism. Next, attach the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine’s Driving Force inlet jack to the nearest source of creative energy. We are Write Way recommend a standard Emotionally Vacant Upbringing (EVU), or Societally Isolated Childhood (SIC) coupled with the optional Write Way Rare Parental Approval (RPA) module for efficient creative drive. Warning: Insufficient creative energy can result in repetitive, uninspired results (see Appendix A: The Dear Abby Syndrome) or asinine whining (Appendix B: Andy Rooney).

After attaching your Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine to an available Driving Force, open the Inspiration Input panel located on the lower right section of the machine. Using a small, sharp instrument (such as your penis), activate/deactivate the appropriate DIPshit to assign the desired column inspiration input. Warning: Failure to activate the correct combination can result in various undesirable results, leading to arrest and criminal prosecution and/or National Syndication.

Next remove the deebing support ring (located under the forelock wheel assembly) and carefully stipple the mantune cage until the blue light rotates into the green. With the loose pin in your left hand, then proceed to osculate the frandip to achieve maximum caustic relux feedback. If the frandip doesn’t achieve enough caustic relux feedback, consult the enclosed Troubleshooting Guide or kick the mantune cage wearing a size twelve steel-toed boot, aiming specifically for the wizzing input slot.

After the caustic relux feedback has been achieved, it is time to select the Editorial Interface Mask (EIM). Please note that three pre-set Editorial Interface Masks have been preloaded into the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine, specifically the Father Figure (FF), the Tyrannical Ogre (TO), and the Corporate Drone. If you are interested in other Editorial Interface Masks, the Automatic Column Writing Machine Upgrade contains ten others as well as additional viewpoint features such as Alcoholic Blurring (AB) and World-weary Cynicism (WC).

To fully utilize the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine’s Deadline Matching Feature (DMF) it’s important to configure the Irresponsibility and Compulsiveness scale, located on the back of the machine, next to the Frustrated Author Input (FAI) and the Destructive Relationship Exhaust Fan (DREF). Turning the pip knob to the left will increase the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine’s dependability in meeting responsibilities (real or imaginary), though it will also affect the Spontaneity Output Mechanism possibly resulting in a creative, if predictable, column. Reversing the pip knob will diminish predictability but can also result in what is commonly referred to as Deadline Lapse Syndrome, which has been proven to be a leading cause of Writer Termination (WT). Correct balancing of these two forces is integral to the correct operation of the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine.

While we at Write Way understand that even after utilizing the excellent technology embodied in our Automatic Column Writing Machine there are other, unknown factors that can affect Creative Output (CO) and Monetary Input (MI), we must still insist that payment for the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine be received within one month of delivery (depending on location and volatility of local delivery personnel). Failure to expedite payment will result in financial and physical penalties, possibly including fines, levies, liens, testicular removal, spinal rearrangement, dental extraction, and colonic impaction.

You are now almost ready to use your Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine to produce admirable and possibly profitable columns. Before continuing, however, it is important to observe the three stage Safety Feature Checklist (SFC):

· To ensure proper lubrication of the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine’s internal assembly, a fifth of cheap bourbon must be fed into the Inhibition GearBox (IGB) on a daily basis. If suitably cheap bourbon is not available, a bottle of cough syrup or rubbing alcohol can be used.

· If overheating occurs, the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine must be automatically switched into standby mode by turning the fiddle switch to the Moderate setting. This will cause the machine to “wheel-spin” until it cools satisfactorily. Failure to place the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine into this mode if overheated can cause the sensitive gibber line to vaporize, resulting at a ten x thousand foot-pound force explosion. This, naturally, voids the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine’s warranty, as well as any operator within three hundred feet of the device.

· Before final activation of the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine, the operator must completely fill out the attached Waiver of Responsibility (WoR), absolving Write Way of any damages – real, emotional, or imaginary – that the operator may experience during the operation of the machine. Failure to do so will result in the gibber line to vaporize, resulting at a ten x thousand foot-pound force explosion.

If you have followed these instructions carefully, you are now ready to use the Write Way Automatic Column Writing Machine and produce profitable and possibly entertaining columns for years to come. If however the machine fails to operate, place it back in its ecologically protective shipping container and return it to an authorized service center or convenient landfill.

If you are in need of a column in the meantime, we suggest that you simply retype this manual – god knows, manuals are just like columns: no one reads them anyway.

Just because -

- it's kind of cool: the sex life of robots (click the image for a YouTube teaser clip).

Confessions of a Literary Streetwalker: An Emotional Survival Kit

(the following is part of an ongoing series of columns I did for The Erotica Readers & Writers Association on the ins and outs and ins and outs and ins and outs of writing good smut)

Please read if you just had something rejected:

This is all part of being a writer. Everyone gets rejected. Repeat after me: EVERYONE GETS REJECTED. This does not mean you are a bad writer, or a bad person. Stories get rejected for all kinds of reasons, from just not the right style to a just plain grouchy, or really dumb editor. Take a few deep breaths, do a little research, and send the story right out again - or put it in a drawer, forget about it, remember it again, take it out, read it, and realize it really is DAMNED good. Then send it out again. Never forget that writing is subjective. My idea of a good story is not yours, yours is not his, his is not mine. Because an editor doesn't like your story doesn't mean that everyone will, or must, dislike it as well. Popularity and money don't equal quality, and struggle and disappointment don't mean bad work. Keep trying. Keep trying. Keep trying.

Think about the rewards, about what you're doing when you write. I love films, but I hate it when people think they are the ultimate artistic expression. Look at a movie, any movie, and you see one name above all the others - the director, usually. But did he write the script, set the stage, design the costumes, act, compose the music, or anything really except point the camera, tell everyone where to stand? A writer is all of that. A director stands on the shoulders of hundreds of people, a writer is alone. Steinbeck, Hemmingway, Austin, Shakespeare, Homer, Joyce, Faulkner, Woolf, Mishima, Chekov - all of them, every writer, created works of wonder and beauty all by themselves. That is marvelous, special: that one person can create a work that can last for decades, centuries, or even millennia. We pick up a book and through the power of the author's words we go somewhere we have never been, become someone new, experience things we never imagined. More than anything else in this world, that is true, real magic.

When you write a story, you have created something that no one - NO ONE - in the entire history of history, has done. Your story is yours and yours alone, it is unique - and you, for doing it, are just as unique. Take a walk. Look at the people you pass on the street. Think about writing, sending out your work: what you are doing is rare, special, and DAMNED brave. You are doing something that very few people in this entire planet are capable of, either artistically or emotionally. You may not have succeeded this time, but if you keep trying, keep writing, keep sending out stories, keep growing as a person as well as a writer then you will succeed. The only way to fail as a writer is to stop writing. But above all else, keep writing. That's what you are, after all: a writer.

#

Please read if you just had something accepted:

Big deal. It's a start. It's just a start. It's one sale, just one. This doesn't make you a better person, a better writer than anyone else out there trying to get his or her work into print. You lucked out. The editor happened to like your style, what you wrote about - hell, maybe even that you set your story in their old hometown. Don't open champagne; don't think about royalty checks and huge mansions. Don't brag to your friends, don't start writing your Pulitzer acceptance speech. Smile, yes; grin, absolutely, but remember this is just one step down a very long road.

Yes, someone has bought your work. You're a professional. But no one will write you, telling you they saw your work and loved it, no one will chase you down the street for your autograph; no one will call you up begging for a book or movie contract. After the book comes out, the magazine is on the stands, the website is up, you will be right back where you started: writing and sending out stories, just another voice trying to be heard.

If you write only to sell, to carve out your name, you are not in control of your writing life. Your ego, your pride, are now in the hands of someone else. Editors and publishers can now destroy you, just as easily as they can falsely inflate you.

It's nice to sell, to see your name in print, but don't write just for that reason. Write for the one person in the whole world who matters: yourself. If you like what you do, enjoy the process, the way the words flow, the story forms, the characters develop, the subtleties emerge, and then no one can rule what you create, can have you jump through emotional hoops. If a story sells, that's nice, but when you write something that you know is great, that you read and tells you that you're becoming a better and better writer, that's the best reward there is.

But above all else, keep writing. That's what you are, after all: a writer.

True Heroes

Where the hell were these great guys when I was getting the crap kicked out of me in high school?

The Grade 9 student arrived for the first day of school last Wednesday and was set upon by a group of six to 10 older students who mocked him, called him a homosexual for wearing pink and threatened to beat him up.

The next day, Grade 12 students David Shepherd and Travis Price decided something had to be done about bullying. "It’s my last year. I’ve stood around too long and I wanted to do something," said David.

They used the Internet to encourage people to wear pink and bought 75 pink tank tops for male students to wear. They handed out the shirts in the lobby before class last Friday — even the bullied student had one. […]

They also brought a pink basketball to school as well as pink material for headbands and arm bands. David and Travis figure about half the school’s 830 students wore pink. […]

"The bullies got angry," said Travis. "One guy was throwing chairs (in the cafeteria). We’re glad we got the response we wanted."

David said one of the bullies angrily asked him whether he knew pink on a male was a symbol of homosexuality. He told the bully that didn’t matter to him and shouldn’t to anyone.

The Feeling is Mutual

Gotta share this too-sweet-for-words post my pal, partner, and love, Sage Vivant, just posted on her own Sex, Stories and Silliness blog:

M. Christian is more than just a prolific writer. More than just the most original voice in the erotica genre. More than just the man I am lucky enough to call my boyfriend.

He loves boobs!

And so do I, dammit. And what's more, I think that more is better. (Which is good because my own are pretty formidable.)

Anyway, M. Christian has started "reprinting" via his blog the columns he's written for various Web sites over the years. They never fail to entertain, and are yet another testament to his quirky worldview and beautifully twisted perspective on everything from tits to fetishes to politics.

You gotta love this guy. But hey, hands off. He's mine.

The View From Here: Breasts

(the following is part of an ongoing 'column' I did for Suspect Thoughts, and, no, it's not supposed to make sense: only be weird fun)

I bought a pair of breasts the other day. I’d been putting it off for months – general hemming, hawing, that kind of thing – but then I walked by a body shop, you know, that pseudoskin place down on Maholley Terrace, by the baby fat bakery, and there they were in the window: two of the most gorgeous set of tits you ever did see. Now I know what they say, that bigger isn’t always better, but I’ll tell ya, it’s only the folks who’ve got stuck with little bitty titties are the ones sprouting that kind of stuff. Size, I’ll tell you, is where it’s at.

So I go into the place right, just to get a feel for them – you know what I mean? – and like a pot-bellied nursing fly this sales drone latches right onto me …ssssuuuuccckkk! I had to whip out my pocket knife and ease the blade between his lips and my skull to break the suction. Soon as he’s free – leaving a mean-ass hickey, too – he starts right into it: a hardcore, non-stop, subliminally packed pitch: “Icansee(buy) thatyou’rethe(buy) kindaguy(buy) whoknowsquality(buy) merchandise.”

Lucky for me, my little neighborhood has recently become a spawning group for telemarketers, the ground thick with their gelatinous offal, egg-cases crackling underfoot, so I’d dowsed myself with cheap-ass perfume to ward off their greedy suckers. Once the smell of the stuff got to his ridiculously under-sized brain he’s quivering eyes lost their luster and his lips sagged down to his waist. “Yeah,” he gurgled through his flaccid sucking organ, “what you want?”

I nodded to the hooters in the window. “How much for the tits?”

He signed, his soft body rippling with the action. It was so disgusting I almost wished I hadn’t cheapened myself before becoming – excited he would have sucked by brain out of my skull trying to remove my wallet from my pants but at least he didn’t fart, burble and quiver like three-day-old birthday pudding. “That’s (sigh) the special. Three hundred goobahs.”

I slapped him hard across what passed for his face, sending his sagging organ whipping around his body at least twice – ending with a disgusting smack when his drooling mouth slapped against the side of his head. His cloudy eyes cleared just a bit so I snapped my hand down to his right hip and slugged his secondary sexual organ. Now completely clear, his eyes jerked and buzzed angrily with the stab of pain. You have to teach these parasites whose boss, you know?

“Don’t give me that feculum,” I growled, kicking him in his distended digestive tract. There was obviously a Paramecium World restaurant nearby, because he expelled a good three and a half bowls of wriggling cilia in red sauce: a venerable geyser of clear, watery flesh and crimson fluids that roared up, hit the ceiling, and rained back down -- pelting the entire establishment in greasy, half-digested Catch of the Day.

“How can I help you, Sir?” he managed to say between loud, sloppy licks of the walls, floor, management, other customers, and me.

“Like I said, I’m interested in the tits in the window,” I said, scraping saliva off my new shark-skin jumper.

“An excellent choice, sir,” he said, belching loudly, the action setting his entire body to quivering with a heavy wave-action. I was momentarily fascinated by him, hypnotized, by the rolls of loose flesh and the way they undulated up to the top of his head – momentarily covering his beady-eyed face with greasy skin. “The finest quality of breast there is.”

“How much?” I repeated, knowing that the ballistic discharge of a meal had most certainly purged his memory as well: our previous conversation just a residue on the harder-to-reach corners of the place.

“For you, fine sir, just two hundred and fifty goobahs,” he said, smiling. The effect was disturbing in the extreme.

I swallowed my revulsion and my own breakfast of immature college graduates and slapped him again. This time his face only wrapped partway around his tiny skull – and I filed away the fact that either these guys were getting tougher or I needed to work out a lot more.

“What was I saying? My goodness, I must have forgotten my brain today! I mean to say that those choice items are currently being offered for the special price of two hundred goobahs.”

Luckily I’d remember to shop armed, so I was able to drop the price down to a hundred and fifty by shooting him in the foot. He made the most delightful piercing scream – shattering every toe and fingernail in the place – as he jumped up and down, thin, yellow blood bubbling disgustedly from the wound.

“Sold,” I told him – pointing my weapon between his tearing eyes in case he had any thoughts about offering insurance or, heaven forbid, gift wrapping. Posthaste, my new boobs were out of the window and into a travel-bubble. The creature was even quite civil as he accepted my squirming pile of goobahs and fed it into the maw of the banking worm.

So that’s how I got my tits. Spectacular, aren’t they? I do have to say that I am quite, quite pleased with them – but, to be honest, while they’re loads of fun, I have to admit that the actually shopping was more fun that the tits ever have been. Funny how that is, ain’t it?

Better Than a Hole -

If you have a bit of time, and want to read about people who like to drill holes in their heads, check out the SF side of the great Dark Roasted Blend site for a little piece I did on trepanation.

Yes, you're expected to wince.