R.B. O'Brien's Blog, page 14

LYING, CHEATING, DECEIT...OH MY!

Why do readers get upset when characters tell lies in our books? Or cheat? When I first published the Natalie’s Edge series, it was a criticism I got—“I’m not reading this. She cheated!” Again? Really? More constructs for our genre?  I guess “Romance” can’t have realistic events and people? I give up!

We all lie. Make no mistake about that. Lying is part of being human. When someone asks you a question—the infamous: Do these jeans make me look fat? for instance—rather than hurt someone’s feelings, we might tell them a slight lie, a white lie as it has come to be called, for myriad reasons. We don’t want to hurt their feelings, to tell the truth does no one any good, negative consequences far outweigh the positives, and the list goes on.

You may say lying takes shape by omission as well. This way may be a step up from the white lie. It isn’t a direct lie, but you simply answer equivocally, with a half-truth by omission. Others may argue it’s not a lie if it’s not clearly stated in a sentence. Are you married? “No, I’m not,” but leaving out that you might have a commitment to someone is an example of a lie by omission. I argue it’s worse, perhaps, than the white lie. And again, I am here to say, of course, I am guilty of the lie by omission as well.

Cheating on someone, going behind someone’s back, asking another to lie for you, those even jump higher up the ladder, and yup, I have been guilty of that in the past as well. I am not going to sit here and call myself a saint. Sometimes being in love can truly blind us and make us do stupid things. Yeah, sure. I did just use that excuse. And so do my characters. Are we really that righteous, that above it?

But there are times when lying goes way, way above the white lie vortex and instead, leaps into a black abyss of complete immorality. These lies are the ones that take effort, planning, fore-thought. These are the lies that can’t stand alone. These are the lies that cause lie upon lie upon lie to be told, perhaps even bringing in others into the mayhem of the swirling storm of deceit. These are the lies that hurt people. They hurt their psyche. They hurt their ability to trust. These are the lies that can scar a person, not physically, but mentally. And if these people become characters in our books, we grow to dislike them, hate them even. These are our true villains.

In real life, those types of lies come from people who are who they are. You cannot thrust your own morality onto another. You have absolutely no control over what another human being does or is capable of doing. You must accept that. The only thing you can control is how you behave after it. How you react and how you deal with it. That is the ONLY thing in your control. You cannot control the actions of others but you can control the actions of yourself. And for me, I choose to realize that lies told like that have nothing to say about my character but about another’s. People like that don’t have character.
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But in our books, we can choose to have the “good guys” win, to have the bad guys get what’s coming to them. Maybe even to suffer. Or, we can choose our bad guys to find redemption. And that, too, is the question we must pose in our real lives. Some people deserve forgiveness. But there are others, who do not. Why should our books be any different than a reflection of authenticity? 

“I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it.” ~SHAKESPEARE

Today’s blog will be short and sweet as I have a book to write! Yes. Thorne: Rose’s Dark Secret is more than halfway complete and I am loving that feeling again, that feeling and place I go when I write, the feeling of immersion in writing, getting lost in my characters, and taking their journey to wherever they lead me, surprising me often, unrehearsed, unplanned. The mind is an enigma at times. I’ll never fully understand it, but when it’s happening and when it’s working, there’s almost no other place I’d rather be.

But outside of the mind and writing, where should we writers be spending our time? A friend shared this article with me today—Books without Readers: A Discoverability Problem. It was an interesting read. And I challenge you to give it a read. 
https://medium.com/@AdamKolczynski/books-without-readers-a-discoverability-problem-fc85ce059803#.jstam1lu3


​It argues that the social media outlets are almost always a waste of time, especially the automated kind. If there is no engagement, the readers are not connecting with the authors, and according to this, that is a big no-no. I do not disagree, but let’s face it, there simply aren’t enough hours in the day for most of us. Because our books aren’t being discovered the way we would like, most of us have full-time jobs (and luckily, for those of you who know me, I happen to love mine and wouldn’t give it up anyway. As I just stated—my mind is an enigma. I don’t ever think I’d like to get lost in it for an eternity. I've written an earlier post about that. See here: http://rbobrien.weebly.com/blog-posts/the-story-must-end).

At the other end of the spectrum, the article argues that engaging on social media also does nothing to sell books. He writes:

                Posts are transient, with a half-life of several hours in the case of Facebook, to                             several minutes in the case of Twitter. The result? Valuable writing time is spent                           topping up live feeds. If Facebook’s algorithms display a post to around 16% of                             fans, paying to reach the other 84% becomes an unsustainable necessity. More                             insidious, perhaps, is the way generalised (sic) social networks fail to                                             target actual book buyers. Page-views don’t buy books; engaged readers do.

So what is the answer? He gives a few (that truthfully didn’t make a whole lot of sense to someone “un-tech savvy”). I have so much to learn!

So I ask you—what do you think is effective? Where should we be spending our time? Will this blog help me? Does my website? Instagram? Pinterest? What? Just what should I be doing?

Here’s the rub (yup another Shakespeare). I happen to enjoy the time I spend on some social media outlets, especially with the network of friends I’ve built. We have a good time occasionally, writing together, like sixwords or romancelines, and we share our moods, we ask questions, and more than anything, we support each other.

I guess what I’m saying is—maybe writing isn’t always about how many book sales we make. Maybe it’s just about being a human being first. And with that, I guess all we’re trying to do is grow and discover ourselves. It makes me happy. Writing makes me happy. If a sell a good deal of books that makes me happy too. But what I am realizing is that’s not why I write. And I have accepted that. 

So friends, I guess, for the time being, you’re stuck with me. Because: “I like this place and willingly...waste my time in it.” ~Shakespeare

​LOVE...and All Its Idiosyncrasies

I wasn’t all that close to my mom. And yet, I was. I know that doesn’t make much sense and I know, I just know I’m going to cry as I write this. How honest can I be without hating myself? It’s Mother’s Day. I loved her. I miss her. And I am also relieved she has passed. Horrible to say. Horrible to write. Horrible to admit. She loved me unconditionally. I the same. But I’m not sure we liked each other all that much.

My mom was a stoic. She was the eldest child and gave up her dreams early on to take care of her siblings. Her brother died very young. Her sister was the pretty and popular one. She wanted to go to college but instead “got stuck” taking care of her mom who had two nervous breakdowns. And then she married my dad and put her personal dreams away for good. The list goes on, including her choice to have me.

She grew bitter. She was what one may call a pessimist. She was harsh. She was critical. She didn’t like me laughing too much. She often questioned my choices. Do you want people to stare at you? Aren’t those jeans a little too tight? Isn’t that skirt too short? Must you make such a fuss with your hair? You know you’re pretty, but you do realize your looks will fade? Aren’t you going to eat something else? Have you practiced this week? Can’t you be more like your brother?

Still, I felt safe. Loved. Cared for. Thank god my dad was the complete opposite. Warm Fuzzy. Goofy. Affectionate. She didn’t like that at times either. My mom and I didn’t have that closeness my dad and I did. We just didn’t have all that much in common I guess.

But I do thank her for so many things. I’m here. I’m thriving. I’m educated. And I have found passion. And in a way, I have her to thank for my love for reading and writing. I could get away from the nagging when I read. I didn’t have to worry if I was pretty enough or smart enough or good enough.

I was the girl who always read and who carried her notebook with her everywhere to jot down things she observed: The woman smoking with her coat pulled tight against herself in the cold wind. The shy teenage boy glancing at me from under his long bangs, fidgety and nervous. The plump 3-year-old pulling on her mother’s pants in defiance to get attention.

And I was the kid who would hide books I shouldn’t be reading under my mattress, where my mom couldn’t find them, books I had been forbidden to read. I was the teenager who couldn’t wait to sneak off, not to party, but to retire to my room where all my secret stories lay hidden. Stories or poems I had scribbled into my notebook or books I couldn’t wait to read again and again, earmarked, stained, and tattered.

 Maybe that’s why I like reading taboo subjects so much. I knew my mother wouldn’t approve. Heck, she couldn’t even talk about the birds and the bees with me. Raised Catholic, she was of the notion—“Hear no evil, see no evil.” If we didn’t talk about sex, surely it couldn’t exist, right? Oh. But it existed. And it was glorious to discover.

But somehow over the years, and especially after I went away to college, I was able to find myself and slowly came to understand my mom. The one time I actually saw her cry was when I left for college and she tucked “Oh the Places You’ll Go” into one of my suitcases without uttering one word. I never for one second doubted that she loved me. I realized she just didn’t want me to suffer the disappointments she had. I realized she was trying to save me from getting hurt. I realized she was just trying to protect me from the heartache she had faced.

I do still carry that fear of taking chances with me, but I have also learned that without taking them, I will experience very little. I don’t mind pain all that much I guess. For without it, I cannot know pleasure. I have experienced both on each side of the scale with vigor.
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I love you, Mom. I carry your heart with me… 

GUESS WHAT? I'M A WRITER. IMAGINE THAT?

Over the last couple of weeks, the topics of writing erotica, and erotic romance in particular, keep coming up. Questions of what constitutes the different genres of writing--erotica, erotic romance, dark romance, and the like—are being asked and with good reason. Somewhere out there in the collective minds, even among some in the erotic genres themselves, the prevalent idea is somehow that writing erotica or erotic romance is not “real writing.” And that ruffles my feathers. I have had several interactions that led me to write this blog. Quite frankly, I’m sick of the stereotypes. Let me be clear: I. Am. A. Writer.

For those of you who know me, I’m a huge fan of Shakespeare. During a fun romp on Facebook, a Shakespearean insult meme made its way around, and we all commented and tossed about some insults and admitted how much the Bard has affected us all one way or another.
I sent a friend request to someone who I particularly enjoyed reading his Shakespearean wit and repertoire and he immediately responded with a (and yes, I will overindulge here): “Hey. You may be an okay person, but you write erotica. I write REAL books. Sorry. I can’t be friends with the likes of you.”

It wouldn’t be the first time something very similar has happened. “Sorry. I have to unfriend you. My girlfriend might get suspicious.” Or: “My circle of friends just wouldn’t understand that I talk to a writer of erotica.”

You may be laughing. But I’m not making this stuff up—that somehow I’m some horny degenerate who only thinks about sex or having sex with others, that I couldn’t possibly have a mind or a flare for writing anything but smutty, pappy trash, that I am going to share nude photos of myself at the turn of a dime. Because, of course, what else would an erotic romance writer possibly be capable of?

Let me tell you. We who write erotica or erotic romance care about the same things every writer cares about. Are there holes in my story? Does the dialogue work? Sound realistic? Do my verb tenses match? Did I use the right word choice? Does my story make you care about the characters? Does the imagery do it justice? Are there places that didn’t make sense?

But more than that, we ask: Can you see and feel my characters’ emotions? Did you feel their feelings as they were happening to them? Their love? Their lust? Their angst? Their sadness? Their anger? Is there pathos or hamartia in their protagonist’s and antagonist’s journey?
Yeah. Sounds like real writing to me. Don’t tell me because I choose to include graphic sexual content in my writing that it is now somehow subpar or without merit. Sex, love, lust, passion—THAT is part of feeling alive. That is part of living. You don’t get much more emotion or feeling than that. It’s really the point of life—to find love, to feel alive, to be brought to unimaginable feelings of both pleasure and pain, love and loss, desire and repulsion, sadness and triumphs.

A person may not like my genre. It may not interest them or titillate them for whatever reason, but it doesn’t make me any less of a writer. I don’t particularly like paranormal. So what? The person who writes that is suddenly not a “real” writer just because it doesn’t suit my tastes?

So let’s stop with the stereotyping. Please. Is there terrible erotica out there? You bet. Are there some erotic writers who are sexual deviants and only think about sex? Of course. But there are deviants and shitty writing in Every. Single. Genre. Don’t single out mine. And don’t judge it until you read it.

Read my books and then have an opinion. If you still hate my writing, so be it. I welcome constructive criticism. I care about growing, improving my craft, choosing that exact, right word, and creating characters who are round and alive, characters we know in real life, characters we relate to and want to follow along on their journey.
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Wow.  Holy shit. I actually sound like a “real” writer. Imagine that?

​Just How the F$%K Do I Categorize My Writing?

I’ve gotten a couple of reviews lately that have me baffled. While the majority of the review is always positive, I keep getting comments like: You call this dark? Please. Or—this is too dark. Or—this is not true BDSM…

I’ve posted my work in a Goodreads group for Dark Romance. Or maybe it was Dark Erotica. I’d really have to go back and look. But does it really fit there? It’s not as dark as writers like Pepper Winters or Claire Thompson or Anabel Joseph. It’s dubious consent at best. There certainly isn’t any non-consent or kidnapping. There is no physical harm or rape or anything of the sort that come to my heroines. I find that repulsive personally, so you won’t be getting any of that from me in my writing. Sorry.

And yet, it certainly doesn’t fit in your regular, run-of-the-mill Romance category either. I’ve written a former blog here about the genre of romance if you’d like to go back and read it. HEA—is it necessary? I argue it is, for romance is a trope that follows prescribed lines. But my writing, especially THORNE? It’s not strictly romance.

And then there’s the genre, BDSM. Yes. There are definitely elements of BDSM in my writing. Bondage, flogging, spanking, tickling, orgasm denial, punishment, humiliation…However, these days, it seems people are looking for manuals and rules that govern BDSM or you get a rash of protest. Since when did writing fiction come with so many rules? I hear it over and over again-- You have to have safe words. Where is the proper aftercare? This is abuse. BDSM is not THIS, O’Brien--

I don’t write BDSM manuals. I write works of fiction based on autobiographical elements, or what I refer to as my subconscious running the show.

Sarah Wendell wrote a great article, explaining her definition of what dark romance means to her:
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What exactly do people mean when they discuss a romance (or any piece of entertainment, really) being "dark?" "Light" is relatively easier to define: funny, friendly, not painfully emotional or wrenching. The opposite could be used to define "dark" romances, I suppose—serious in tone, emotionally powerful, potentially painful…a dark romance is one wherein there's going to be a happy ending eventually, but it'll hurt a bit first, for everyone involved, including me, the reader.

 I completely agree with her.

I don’t write upbeat, happy-go-lucky, light tales. I don’t like to read them. I’m not going to write them. You want erotica for titillation only, I say go for it. I’m not going to knock you for it. Not at all. But I like stories. Contemporary, real-to-life stories. I like character development. I like characters I love to hate. Real. Flawed. Round characters.  I like angst. I like emotion. I want to feel that flip in the pit of my stomach when I read. I want to cry occasionally. I want to get aroused. The mind. In particular, a woman’s mind. That’s where it happens for me.
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So, because society is making me categorize my writing, I am sticking with Dark Romance. Dark because it’s a painful, emotional journey that isn’t always “right”; and romance, because yes, with me, there will eventually be a happy ending. And erotica? You bet. Without the hot sex, life would be just well…what would it be? Nothing. Great sex. It’s what makes us feel alive, isn’t it? Okay. And maybe banana pancakes. But that's another story entirely! 

VERSIONS OF MYSELF

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​I was always the girl growing up who just wasn’t quite like the rest of them. I liked working hard. I liked contorting my body until I could feel the ache inside my bones, until I could feel the pain in my teeth. I liked to wear lipstick and nothing else and found myself fascinated with the shape of my lips and the different colors I could make them.  I ate too little. Slept too much. Masturbated far too often and at far too young an age. I enjoyed the feeling of being naked alone behind closed doors, exploring my deepest secrets within my imagination, as I put my hand over the rapid pace of my heart to feel how nervous it made me. I blushed at the faintest mention of my name and almost perished when complimented. I loved to find the answers behind someone’s eyes. There’s nothing quite like the feeling of when someone REALLY looks at you. And I read. Every chance I got.

Guess I haven't changed very much.

I loved to read, especially from about ten years old. Books I shouldn’t have been reading. Books I didn’t quite understand at the time, books and plays in high school that made sense to me only on a purely emotional level: Wuthering Heights, The Mill on the Floss, Romeo and Juliet, The Awakening, The English Patient. Like my childhood books, of course the infamous Judy Blume and Are You There God It’s Me Margaret, I didn’t realize that I didn’t quite understand them.

And yet, I did. I understood them in that one moment of living. I was the girl crying to Mariah Carey as my sophomore boyfriend moved out of state, abandoning me at thirteen who thought she’d never recover. I was that eighteen year old in love with my very own Heathcliff for seven years.  I was the leery girl, afraid to jump into that headlong lust that beckoned me only months ago.

But when I read and reread such books or plays or stories I loved and couldn’t quite even understand why I loved them at the time, I see myself in them again. I see a different self. I see my niece and my students. I see the older characters in the book. I see the passion and the lust in Romeo and Juliet, the idea of what it means to go against what is expected of me. I don’t see Kate Chopin’s protagonist as a selfish woman anymore as I did in high school. I see and feel exactly why she walked into that ocean to take her life. For to live an unfulfilled life and then perhaps find someone that might actually take away the mundane, preordained, mapped out societal bullshit but not be able to act on it? I get is all so differently now.

A student in my class asked me the other day why we still read Shakespeare, that it didn’t make sense to him in high school. What should have been a simple answer, turned into a passionate discussion of what makes a work of literature last.
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After class, the student looked at me and said, perhaps I should go back and reread it? And I answered, emphatically, “Yes. Perhaps you should.”

The Only Kiss That Matters

So much talk lately about the kiss, the intimacy of the kiss, that feeling of euphoria that comes with that kiss that is right and real, that kiss that swallows you up, starting from the curl in your toes to the hair on the back of your neck, that kiss that leaves you panting for air, that makes each part of your body quiver as you melt against him, that makes you suck his bottom lip into your mouth with the overwhelming urge to bite it.. Sometimes hard. That. That kind of kiss.

I had THAT kind of kiss for the first time with my first true love, not until sophomore year of high school. And that was the end for me. For to find a good kisser is to find yourself lost, at the mercy of another, at their seductive whims and charms like a magician with his hat and rabbit. I have also found it’s not all that common.

My first French kiss was in 7th grade. I was young. I was naïve. And I had never even pecked a boy, let alone French kiss. Quite frankly, I had no idea what the French kiss was, though I had heard about it, like an Arthurian legend,  like some secret sorority hears about hazing, like some mystical experience that only then will allow you to enter “womanhood.” For without the French kiss, it was argued, you had never been truly kissed.

We stood dancing under a 7th-grade decorated gym of hideous reds and greens only middle-schoolers can concoct, around Christmas time, to a slow song like the timid children we were, out of Catholic uniform and separated by the imaginary Holy Ghost. A spunky 8th grader thought it fun to put some mistletoe above our heads and order us to do the unthinkable: French kiss in front of a gym of overly-horny tweeners, set free of the rules of everyday school desks and teachers and rows and homework and raising hands and rulers.

What could we do? So…we kissed. I thrust my tongue into his mouth and he did likewise, and we stood there, tongue-locked and embarrassed, eyes wide, transfixed on one another in horror. The sadist who held the mistletoe laughed, skipped off, and carried on as if he didn’t just initiate us into some ungodly communion. And I? I ran to the bathroom, washed off my numb tongue, which I was convinced would never feel the same, and never looked that boy in the face again until many years later at a party where we could finally laugh at the absurdity of it.

It was several years before I delved into “French-dom” again. And what a difference it makes when you feel, when you feel him in every blood vessel of your body, when it is unrehearsed and spontaneous but alive with the electricity, when being in tune with each other is as natural as breathing, when you can’t control a thing your mouth and lips are doing, when your body reacts without a care or thought but to be there in that one moment, blood coursing, pulse beating extravagantly fast, limbs and mind gone to the nothingness but emotion. The only way to describe it is the meeting of two souls in one instance.
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Why settle for any other kind of kiss? That is the only kiss that matters.

ONCE WRITING LEAVES OUR HANDS...

So…because a few have asked about this poem I shared the other day, I decided to answer as much as I’m comfortable with. Why not?

The poem (shared again below in full) was something I wrote a while back but I found it interesting that I still ponder and worry and struggle with the same things. So what was it about? Who was it about? What does it mean? Those were the questions I was asked. And I’ll do my best to answer, within reason.

I had a long-lasting relationship that was headed only one place: marriage. And it follows the same-old problem I still often face, doing things I’m supposed to do rather than maybe what I want to do. Will that ever change? Or is that just who I am?

In this particular case, I was madly in love. We had a long-lasting, passionate relationship. Sometimes I wonder about that word “passionate” and its connotations. They aren’t all positive. Yes. I want to lead a life of passion but with passion can also come turmoil and heartbreak, highs and lows, ups and downs, break-ups and make-ups, and happiness and sadness.

And so was the case with this relationship. It was a never-ending circus of emotions. And I remember the day I realized that if I didn’t end it, that if I kept at it, in this co-dependent, emotionally destructive situation, my life would not be one filled with peace or true happiness, but a life of constant battles. In short, it was an unhealthy relationship that lasted far too long.

The poem tries to encapsulate that day of epiphany, that day I knew at once the person I wanted him to be and the person he truly was, that day I couldn’t continue to draw him into my ideal but had to accept the truth, that day I couldn’t follow my strict Catholic background and go through with something that I knew would only be destructive in the end but instead do the most painful thing I needed to do. And I really did write it on a park bench! So as you reread it, perhaps it will make a little more sense to you. Romance. Passion. Relationships. Sex. And ultimately break up.

But honestly, I want the poem to mean to you whatever it did when you read it. It is yours now because I shared it (which I don’t often do). It has been taken out of my hands and now given to you. Make it what you want and what it isn’t. It is yours. Find your story in it. That’s what happens the minute our words unfold to be shared. I must give up what it meant to me. Otherwise, there is no point in sharing our writing, and believe me, there is much that will never be seen by any eyes but my own! 

St. Patrick's

Contrived on a grainy park bench
with a pen in my hand
and the sun on my face,
I drew you effortlessly
as I looked at St. Patrick’s across the street
through the cracks of light between the oak trees
and wondered if I’d marry you in it
and kiss
you fervently against the coarse wood of the pew in front of everyone who had fantasized
about what we had done with our clothes off in the hot heat of that summer
like a neo-classical ballet against the glassy reflection of the lake where we swam.
I saw you light a cigarette against the figment of my heart,
black and smoky stains,
your existence,
muted with the opalescent colors of my imagination.
I sat there
and crossed and uncrossed my long, sunburnt legs,
sore from the exhaustion of being good and behaved and trained.
The clouds rolled across the cerulean sky with steely vigilance
to hide the ephemeral happiness of anything remotely squeezed out
from the heightened cry of the birds.
And my loneliness was heard in the deepest hollow of the dirt.

R.B. O'Brien

WHAT'S IN A NAME anyway?: Writing with a Pseudonym

​Many of us who write erotica, erotic romance, dark romance, or bdsm-related stories cannot reveal our real names or identities. And let me tell you, it’s difficult and lonely at times.

I can’t connect with “real life” friends on Facebook or Tweet them my favorite event of the day or share a review I got on my books. Because I teach, and just the nature of my life in general, people in my ‘circles’ would never understand. They certainly wouldn’t believe I write what I write. Everyone I know knows that I write, of course, I write much for my job that is not erotic-related, but they will never know my books of fiction or my stories. It’s just not worth it to be judged like that. Never mind that I need my job and happen to truly love it.

But…I must write what I write or wither and perish altogether. It’s my only outlet to explore things I can’t begin to understand about myself or explore in real life.

Before I published the Natalie’s Edge series, I didn’t have a Facebook page, couldn’t even fathom the concept of Twitter, and creating a website or blog? I used to pride myself a Luddite actually. The social media stuff just seemed to be asking for trouble in my line of profession.

Case in point: My very first job out of college was teaching high school seniors, and I was just barely older than they were. Things got a little sticky at times to say the least. I certainly didn’t want to open any more doors than were necessary. Some of the stereotypes are true. Boys are horny ALL THE TIME.  (And no. I do not find that exciting in the least bit. Sorry.) So social media? I didn’t want that kind of trouble. Why would I open those kinds of doors?

So why do I tell you all of this? Because some of you are becoming a very real part of my life, in this crazy virtual world.  I’ve connected with many of you, would love to have a beer or a glass of wine with a few of you (you know who you are!), and a part of me wishes everything didn’t have to be so secret. At times, I feel much closer to many of you than I do to some of my real-life companions. How strange it has become!

Because honestly, as Shakespeare wrote, WHAT’S IN A NAME? It couldn’t be more accurate. A name is a label. It doesn’t make the person. Behind every pseudonym is a human being, alive, full of feelings and emotions, ideas, thoughts, seeking out advice, caring about the lives of those around her in the virtual sphere. We share bits and pieces each and every day, opening up, becoming closer with others, thinking about them upon the very first breath of morning and the very last before bed. It’s much harder than I thought it would be to remain hidden. In fact, many of you know more than most.

So while we may hide our names, we do not hide ourselves. We are just people, trying to make the best of it each day, trying to have a go at it. I didn’t expect to feel things for people I may never meet. And there are days, I question what I’m doing and my sanity.

I wish society was more open, more open to sex, to erotica, to writing taboo subjects. But presently, that is impossible. So I share my triumphs and failures with you. Thank you for letting me. 

The Story Must End...

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“The witching hour, somebody had once whispered to her, was a special moment in the middle of the night when every child and every grown-up was in a deep deep sleep, and all the dark things came out from hiding and had the world all to themselves.” 
―  Roald Dahl , The BFG







​​Writing fictional romance, for me, is a Catch 22. Without it, I wither, but too much of it and I lose myself, my true self, the self of my waking world, aka, reality. It’s an odd occurrence to dissolve into a character’s mind or two or three, to lose oneself within their story. Coming up for air is hard. It can almost feel like the life of a madman. It can be quite upsetting when a story you spent a great deal of time being a part of comes to an end. And it is emotionally taxing to go into that world of writing and to feel it so viscerally that to come out is sometimes a daunting and difficult task. The story must end at some point. It can’t go on for eternity. And getting your bearings back is a tough task.

True, you can go back and read your stories, over and over again. I do that with my favorite books all the time. As a teacher, I am often forced to read the same novel or play, again and again as I teach it, and the great ones never really get old. I get savvier about the themes. I understand the characters and their motivations more. Symbols or imagery that I may not have noticed now become visible. Rereading a text one loves is peaceful. A slice of heaven. So why is writing a story you love so different?

It just is. There is something to be said about closure when writing. When it’s over, you take that breath, and say those famous two words: "The End." The story is complete. The denouement has most likely been written. And though sometimes you and your readers might imagine what the future looks like for the characters after the last page, it is still time to move on. Their story has been told. It is time to start fresh. To start a new story. A new chapter, filled with new characters and struggles and triumphs. It is time to say goodbye to the past.

It is very much like relationships. They don’t all last forever, and the ones that matter or mattered hurt tremendously when they’re over. But when it’s time to move on, it’s time to move on. Period. It’s hard as hell, and it’s even harder when closure doesn’t quite exist. Without closure, it’s almost impossible to move on. And if a person repeatedly opens and closes doors, it can become a vicious cycle of pain and heartache.

But we have choices. We don’t have to open the doors again to the same repeated offenders. It doesn’t matter if the breeze they let in is refreshing or exciting or invigorating. It will only leave you chilled when they walk out it again. You know this. You’ve let them do it too often. You can only accept the word sorry so many times. You don’t owe them second and third chances. Their patterns have been established. You know who they are.

And so, while I envy Roald Dahl and his writing routine, I don’t have what it takes to dedicate my every day to it. Perhaps that is why I will never be great. Perhaps I am far too emotional of a person. I feel too much. To live a life of perpetual starts and stops, relationships beginning and ending far too frequently, is exhausting, even as I scream to myself, “It’s only fantasy! This is fiction.” When submerged like that, it doesn’t feel that way, and truth be told, it almost always isn’t. I get too lost. I get too caught up. My subconscious comes through. And becoming that invested and then having to say goodbye like that...I’ll never get comfortable with it. Yes. It can be cathartic. It can also just be draining. Aren’t the starts and stops of our real-life relationships enough?

I am thankful for small epiphanies that light my path and show me my limits.  Every day is another learning curve in my journey of self-discovery. And I get a little stronger every day. I have my own special “witching hour” where I let the darkness shine, and that window is enough for me…for now.