Wet Ink

What Does an Erotic Writer Look Like?

At a party, a stranger asked, "Do you write anything other than literary fiction?"  I said I was working on a novel that was more at the popular end and had published erotic stories.  She laughed rather wildly, flapping at the air.  "You just don't look like the type," she said.  Bemused, I asked who was the type and that made her giggle even harder.  "You'd wear something low-cut, and seem more outrageous."  I was in jeans and a top - very standard for me - so, in my most deadpan voice, I added, "If you knew was I was wearing underneath, your doubts would be assuaged." 

Snort.

Which brings me to this.  To write erotic stories, must one gad about in lace?  To pen a mystery, must you look, well, mysterious?  Can you be a biker-chick and write a romance novel?  The answer, of course, seems obvious to me.  Yes, as long as you read the stuff yourself!  

I was charmed when a fellow erotic writer told me her gran reads erotica.  In fact she's in a group made up of similar ladies, who read and discuss an erotic book a week.  So there.  If you can enjoy a sex-scene at eighty, I don't see why you shouldn't write one as well.  Maybe when I'm silver-haired, I'll still be penning such scenes.  And then, when asked what I write, I'll reply "erotic stories" and bask in the reaction!  Oh yes.

A friend of mine tells me I look exactly like an erotic writer.  "It's the glasses," he says.  "You're the classic naughty librarian."  Cheers for that, Andrew.  I think.

Reasons for Reading Jung on the T.

Yesterday, I was riding on the T (the Boston subway, for those who don't know it), listening to rock with my earbuds in and reading Jung's Psyche and Symbol.  It's quite hard to listen to The Kills when you're immersed in Jung, but the instincts said to do it, so there I was.  In fact, I grew absorbed.  Here's a snippet:

"The psychological rule says that when an inner situation is not made conscious, it happens outside, as fate.  That is to say, when the individual remains undivided and does not become conscious of his inner opposite, the world must perforce act out the conflict and be torn into opposing halves." From C. J. Jung's Psyche and Symbol (Part V).

Fascinating view, hm?  Seeing as I'm writing a book of monster stories and a novel about two thieves (one more dark, one more light), I have to admit, I was taken.  In fact, it made me think about "fate" in a more complex way.  

Anyway, there I was reading Jung, when a man sat down in the seat next to mine.  I didn't notice him at first, except I knew he was big and kept nudging my arm.  After a while, I looked up.  He was flipping through a photo album and making groaning sounds that stopped, for a moment, when he turned and met my gaze.  I also noticed we were the only ones on the train.  His glare was threatening.  His noises weren't a comfort.  So yours truly turned up the volume and looked back at her book.  The groaning noises continued, I'm sure, but I was unaware.  I was deep in the unconscious, mate.  Oh, the comfort of walls! 

But apart from an escape-route in weird situations or a way of understanding life afresh, reading Jung on the T has other advantages.  When I was literacy co-ordinator at an English secondary school, I learned a few truths about reading development.  Kids who see adults reading when they're young are far more likely to pick up a book; and, of course, those that pick up a book are those who learn to write more easily.  Many young folks, particularly those from less advantaged backgrounds, have very few literacy models, so how do we expect them to commit to reading?  And if they don't read, writing's much harder.  And without reading and writing skills, life ain't a breeze.

So next time you feel like reading a book in public (be it Jung's Psyche and Symbol or Jilly Cooper's Riders) be proud of yourself because you're modeling reading, and also, should you need it, you've a way of averting your eyes.  Plus, even if it's Jilly you're immersed in, you're bound to be learning a thing or two.  ;)

That's Life

"That's life, that's what all the people say.
You're riding high in April, 
Shot down in May
But I know I'm gonna change that tune,
When I'm back on top, back on top in June."

Frank Sinatra, in That's Life (listen here).

When we talk about life, we often resort to metaphor or cliche, and I can't see there's anything wrong with that.  Why we're here, why we fail, why we succeed...  It's all a mystery.  Here we are in this together, trying to keep on searching for a reason.  Some of us feel we've got one, others feel we haven't. Psychological studies have shown again and again that one thing we humans long for is a reason why, no matter what's under debate.  Is it any wonder then that we think metaphorically?  When Amy Winehouse sings, "My life is like a pipe / And I'm a tiny penny rolling up the walls inside..." (from Back to Black)  I know what a pipe is and I know what a penny is -- life becomes something concrete.  A relief!

In Anglo Saxon England, when the whole community believed in a Christian God, a poet urged the people to think of life as a bird flying through the meadhall, in through one window and out through another.  Back then, life's transience was often stressed -- it was the spiritual life that was endless and precious.  But even with such faith, the people valued reminders.  How powerful to see life as part of a continuous flight: more liberating before and after, than during. 

To speak of life using metaphors can be freeing today, as well.  I'll never forget the Pythons singing "Life's a piece of shit when you look at it".  How hard I laughed at that song!  And in Sinatra's "That's Life", he not only throws us a comfort-bone, but also stresses some grit that we all connect to.  "I thought of quitting baby, / But my heart just ain't gonna buy it. / And if I didn't think it was worth one single try, / I'd jump right on a big bird and then I'd fly...".  

You may have heard about the controversial bus banners in London.  (Read an article here).  The proposed advert was put forward by The Humanist Society and reads, "There's Probably No God.  Now Stop Worrying and Enjoy Your Life."  As a humanist myself, I like the slogan, but of course not everybody feels the same.  I should add that I'm also glad that I worry about what's right, wrong, better, worse -- I know I'm not alone in believing that caring is part of being an Atheist.  But what strikes me most about that bus slogan is the fact that it's direct -- no metaphor needed.  Controversial?  Yes.  Gutsy?  Completely.  Right?  Who can say.  (Scientist Richard Dawkins, incidentally, thinks the word "probably" should be cut from the slogan!).

Perhaps what's most important is that we think about these things.  And thanks to words and text, we rarely have to do so completely alone.

Transformations

Impossible not to blog today of all days, when we see a big change in US politics.  I myself will mark the day by sharing some quotes about transformations.  But if political speeches are more your bag, visit Narrative for snippets from the world's best and worst.

Recently, I had the honour of teaching a seminar entitled "Transformations" to a group of exceptionally talented writers.  On that night, we rewrote fairy tales.  So, for now, my transformations will be somewhat magical.  (Aren't many transformations a touch on the magical side?).  They're all poems, but that wasn't on purpose.  I've poetry on the mind right now, is all.  Here:

"When the prince came the witch fastened 
the hair to a hook and let it down. 
When he saw that Rapunzel had been banished
he flung himself out of the tower, a side of beef.
He was blinded by thorns that pricked him like tacks.
As blind as Oedipus he wandered for years 
until he heard a song that pierced his heart 
like that long-ago valentine. 
As he kissed Rapunzel her tears fell on his eyes 
and in the manner of such cure-alls 
his sight was suddenly restored."

From Rapunzel by Anne Sexton

And this, from a spider in bed with another spider (yes, it's a touch saucy):

"Loverboy, when I wine my continent
And move the coastline of my waist
I mek you break away like Trinidad
Till all your peaks weak with my conchshell taste..."

From "Aunty and Uncle Nancy's Pillow Talk" by John Agard

And in Carol Ann Duffy's version of Little Red Riding Hood:

"But then I was young - and it took ten years
in the woods to tell that a mushroom 
stoppers the mouth of a buried corpse, that birds
are the uttered thoughts of trees, that a greying wolf
howls the same old song at the moon, year in, year out,
season after season, same rhyme same reason.  I took an axe

to a willow to see how it wept.  I took an axe to a salmon
to see how it leapt.  I took an axe to the wolf
as he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw
the glistening, virgin white of my grandmother's bones..."

From Little Red Cap, by Carol Ann Duffy

Well, whatever your politics, today will bring a change.  Time for some transformations?  Is it too much to hope that the rats will turn to footmen, and the pumpkin will burst open and sprout a set of wheels?  

Strange, These Writer's Tools

I have many tools in my writing room.  My dictionary, thesaurus, books on writing, my computer, keyboard, post-its, pens...  But the ones that don't feel like tools are more intriguing.  We all have these, I'm sure.  Here are three of mine:

Dad's Watch Paperweight:  When I was a little girl, I often had to wait for my father to give me a lift.  Dad was an accountant and had his own business, so I'd sit in the "client" seat on the other side of his desk.  As he was finishing up, I'd reach for his paperweight - a block of solid glass with an exploded watch inside.  Yes, you read that correctly! Set within the glass were the separate parts of a watch: the face, the tiny screws, the spirals of wire, little silver cogs, copper plates on springs...  Every time I waited for Dad I used to inspect these bits -- for me it was like magic!  Now I have this paperweight on my writing desk.  It not only serves to remind me of my dad, but it also helps me keep in mind that things are fascinating.  'Looking deeply' is so important for a writer.  Much is under the surface; not always apparent, but there.

My Laughing Buddha:  When I was living in Cambridge, UK, I bought a laughing Buddha from the shop down the street.  He makes me remember the power of laughter, and how important humour is in writing and life.  There's so much coldness, rejection, lack of warmth that it's easy to forget we can laugh.  When I receive those lifeless emails, I poke a little fun at myself; and as I'm writing the bravest of scenes, the Buddha's still there, laughing.

My Shredder:  This is a beautiful tool for a writer.  Some say, "Hold on to your rejection slips!"  (I've heard all sorts of reasons -- because once you're famous they'll look foolish, or because each one's a success...).  But hell, not me!  I have my Excel spreadsheet saying where I've subbed and if I get rejected I simply tick them off; then I carry the slip/letter across to the shredder and, unless it's a personal one (I do keep those), I get the pleasure of feeling it go brrrrr.  Oh, that wonderful grinding sound, and the knowledge that none of it matters!  Because, truly, it doesn't.  Shredding my slips keeps it in perspective.  All that matters is that I still write.  Paff to the papery bits!

Got any tools of your own?  I'd love to hear about them...

Of course, for me, Narrative Magazine is more than a tool!  If you're able to be in CA this March, and fancy a wonderful time, I urge you to check out Narrative Night.

Upcoming Reading

Just to let you know, I'll be reading this Thursday (22nd January) at Cornerstone Books in Salem, MA, from 7.30.  Also reading/performing, will be Jennifer Pieroni, editor and co-founder of Quick Fiction, and Rachel McCartney, a folk/blues acoustic artist.  The evening is called, "The Thursday Theater of Words and Music".  There'll also be an open mic.  Fun!  You can find out more here.

Among the Tiny Houses

Imagine walking into a dark room and finding it filled with a hundred dolls' houses.  These tiny buildings are lit from within and rise on hills made of packing boxes.  You stand, bewitched, as you gaze up, or in through the windows of the miniature homes (which are gutted, but still equipped with wallpaper, fireplaces, rugs).  This is what you'll find if you to the MFA, while the Rachel Whiteread exhibition is still on.  The installation is entitled "Place (Village)" and it's totally enchanting.  I stood there for ages, swept away.  See a picture and read more here.

The artist, Rachel Whiteread, started collecting these tiny houses without really knowing why.  Over the years, she ordered them online.  She felt a real joy every time she unpacked them, and thus she realised the truth -- this piece, Place (Village), would be about what made her happy.

I love so much about this story.  Firstly, it explains why standing in that room, faced with those houses, I felt happy myself.  When we, as artists, express sincere feelings, those who view our work can experience them too.  In other words, when we do what we love, we're helping others to  feel that way.  Love breeds love.  (Don't I sound like a beautiful hippie?).  Well, it's a reason to enjoy what we do.  Secondly, I like the intuition Whiteread felt.  She didn't know why she was collecting those houses, but she knew there was a reason and that something would come from it.  This reminds me of something from my own life.  Over a year ago now, a voice inside my head woke me up at two in the morning.  It said, "Sign up for the writing course you read about today."  I hadn't much inclination to do this course, yet the voice wouldn't let it lie.  Only when I'd sent the email to Grub Street could I finally sleep.

Well, that was intuition at work.  This course changed my writing life, as a part of me knew it would -- and because of it, I met folks I'm close to now.

As I was standing among Whiteread's little houses, a mother and her kids entered the room.  The poor woman was trying to keep her children quiet, but I really didn't mind the noise.  They whooped, rushing up to  the houses, and because they were so small they could stand up close.  "Look," cried the little girl, pointing her finger.  "How tiny the doorknobs are!"

I hadn't even noticed those doorknobs.  I was simply viewing as a god.  A new perspective is eye-opening, right?  (Gods don't see it all).

Why I Require No Promises (or the Glass is Already Broken)

"Someone gave me this glass, and I really like this glass.  It holds my water admirably and it glistens in the sunlight.  I touch it and it rings!  One day the wind may blow it off the shelf, or my elbow may knock it from the table.  I know this glass is already broken, so I enjoy it incredibly." Achaan Chah Subato, Thai Buddhist teacher

I was reading a contract a while back for a story I'd sold.  The editor said she wanted to accept the piece, but the publishing house had right of refusal.  It was all there on the paper, spelled right out.  (Of course, we must sign nothing unless we understand it first!).  In other words, though the story had been accepted, the publisher could change their minds at any given point.

But what's new?  All of us change our minds -- in fact, it's a human right.  As writers, a scene we truly believe in when we write it, might, several days later, seem like a huge mistake.  A book we love when we're sweet sixteen, might be less meaningful once we're thirty-two -- and yet we might have sworn (and meant it!) that we'd love that novel for the rest of our lives.

One thing I find helpful is to try and live in the moment.  I try to enjoy the scene while I'm writing it, in the true knowledge that I might, at some point, cut it.  And I believe it's the same for most things in life.  What we need changes.  What we find beautiful changes.  I'd never expect a friend to say, "We'll be close forever," -- to me that wouldn't be a fair expectation.  So why would I expect the same from a sentence?  Or a piece of dialogue?  Or a metaphor I've written?  We can love these in the moment and that's a truer love.  One that isn't bound.

Once I try to bind that sentence into my story, and say, "This is the perfect string of words and it will always be so," I'm too attached, and that's no good.  Love is freer than that.  I find it's better to say, "I'm pleased with that right now," but to know that, tomorrow, things may change.  This way I'm bolder, freer, more connected.  And writing (nay, life!), I find, becomes more enjoyable.

You Beat Me

Finding it hard to blog today, so I thought, instead, I'd share one of my pieces with you.  This one was published a while back in Redivider.  Many thanks to the editors there and I hope you folks enjoy it:

You Beat Me

At tag, at ping-pong, at tic-tac-toe, at 'fart the loudest', at snap.  At 'Where's Waldo?', at 'spit the gum'; at algebra, leapfrog and darts.  In sneakers, in skates, in helmets.  In dodgems, in kayaks, on ropes.  You got grades and a soft-top.  Got pierced, got burnt, got wise.

You won at losing it, at liking it, at spreading it around.  You smoked the weed and quit it, before I'd even tried.  You told me first, you kissed me first, you always woke before me first.  Your pancakes never stuck, your fires always took.  You beat me home on Fridays.  You beat me to the pub.  You beat me from the car and through the door.  And once, in the rain (only once, only once) with your fist, when I told you where I'd been. 

By Sue Williams, published in Redivider  (vol. 2, issue 5, Spring '08)

Free Stories = Free Love

A good friend and excellent writer had a story accepted recently by a well-respected mag.  I'm thrilled for him, of course, in part because of the exposure.  But there's another reason I get excited about others' publications: the fact that their stories will be finally cut loose, be read by others, have a chance to spread.

I used to be very alone as a writer.  Nothing wrong with that.  It's how I operated, what I needed at the time.  But once I realised I was part of a community, things began to change.  I'm not just talking about those I know -- this web consists of all of us with our shared goals.  Each time a book is released, or a poem printed, or a story invented and told aloud, the success can be felt by all of us, for Story is making waves.

It's not the best of times right now.  The economy is suffering.  The news is hard to listen to.  And feeling less secure, we often cut back on art.  Society decides it can't afford the books, the paintings, the music, the subscriptions, and so on.  It's a valid point.  But we must keep the art alive because, if we don't, we suffer.  Visit the library.  Share subscriptions.  Listen, not only to NPR or the BBC, but also to The Rolling Stones (or whoever makes you happy).  And each time one of us makes a ripple in this lake, I'll cheer you, no matter how big or small.  What I'd like?  For all my friends (and I include myself) to have their work out there, to earn money, to be known.  But more than that -- stories for everyone who wants them.  Books and art that is free.

In the interest of spreading the love, my writer friend Catherine Elcik, authors a fabulous blog called Bo-Bo Knows (Bo-Bo is her cool pooch), which often deals with books and writers.  Thought you might like to take a look.