Everything Is Fine Part 1: A Beginner’s Guide to Re-discovering Your Past Lives

In the depths of this book there is a black and white photo of a leggy high school girl working on pep rally posters. The printed caption says her name is Cheryl and there is a self conscious attempt at describing the scene in a witty manner as though it were a cartoon. In a corner of this page is a paragraph in red ink with cutesy hearts dotting lower case "i"s and florid "t" crossings and some truly hormonal lower loops that have that fetishistic effect on me big lower loops still have. Handwriting analysis is still a hobby, and these are lower loops to make a once desperate young man, now a desperate old fart, daydream of things that should not be done with impressionable young maidens. The red ink words call me by name, wish me a happy life, assure me I’m going to do well and emphasize how "special" and "funny" I am, and what "a trip" it was sitting next to me in history class where Mr. (illegible) gave us detention for laughing too loud and passing notes. I wonder if that was the history class where I got busted out for reading a paperback of "Portnoy's Complaint" behind the text book during a lecture. The lesson was about some particularly gruesome business, maybe the Nazi death camps or maybe the nuking of Nagasaki, and I had come to the infamous scene where poor Alex whacks off into a baseball glove on a bus. I was discovered because I had disintegrated into wheezing, self-suffocating laughter and the teacher wanted to know what was so goddamned funny about what he was saying, was I a monster? Was I insane? What have you got there behind your book - and I was marched off to the principal’s office. I wonder if that was the moment I began to get excited about books. Whatever it was, this young Teutonic beauty painting pep rally posters thought I was all right, way back in the day.

The funny thing is I don’t remember her. Not a clue. Only this mysterious note written above a photo, like a lost fragment of the Dead Sea scrolls. There are a lot of names and mystery notes like this. It was a different time. A whole life lost. The young man is dead and gone, though somehow reincarnated as me, he is already a ghost. I wonder if he would have liked me. I wonder what he would think of the person his karma gave birth to. Perhaps he would sense how sometimes I want so badly to be him and he would feel afraid.

Now this photo here, this is Terri. I remember Terri. She was a senior, a year older than me, when she lived downstairs in my run down apartment building. She came from an Irish Catholic mother, no father around which was typical of most of the kids there including me. We used to hang out in the hall way of our building, sitting close together on the landing and talking late at night. Sometimes she invited me in and we fried tacos on the stove.

There was this guy upstairs named Jerome, a single guy in his mid 20's, a fugitive from an ex-wife, one of these bad boys girls at that age find so fuckable. He knocked her up and dumped her. He continued to live upstairs and more or less ignored her and her rage even after their daughter was born. Terri was the first girl who talked openly with me about sex, and what it was like for a girl. She said once you started - and I had not - it got to be a habit. That's all? A habit? Like picking your nose? Well, kind of, yeah. You forget it’s where babies come from. Rubbers feel funny, and the man complains, so to please him you do it without condoms, usually on the sofa during the commercials when you’re watching TV. You just get so you want to do it all the time. Once you start to feel at ease about being naked in front of that person, its easy to get it going anytime. When you see his cock standing up it proves he thinks you’re beautiful. Right? He must really love you a whole lot, or why would it be like that? Right? You like that feeling when he's on top of you, and when you're looking up at his face, at his intensity, and knowing that for that moment you are all the world to him, that until the moment he makes "this funny noise like a hamster" and his eyes close and his whole body tenses up, that there is nothing - nothing - in all the world more important, nothing he's thinking of except you alone.

Terri lasted in school as long as she could. But in those days, being knocked up wasn’t acceptable. She was a young woman condemned to scuttle through the halls like a troll as her belly swelled and everyone knew she was not a virgin. Kids avoided her. Other friends dropped away. She dropped out and over the summer got her GED. There was a time when it was all too much, Jerome’s indifference, her mother’s contempt, and she had a breakdown and landed in "Glenwood Hills", the local funny farm. I went to see her there. We stood on a stone bridge watching the creek run under. I noticed there were wire nets built under the bridge to keep the desperate from doing anything rash. She said she liked to stand here and watch the water go by and pretend it was carrying her troubles away like dead leaves. Her baby was named Melissa. Everybody called her "Missy". I don’t know where she is these days. They didn't have Facebook then, and I don’t suppose she would have been a Facebook kind of person. I wish I could write her sequel. I wish I could think of a happy ending just for her.

In a corner of the book is this thing from "Scott". I do remember Scott. I have cause to remember him. In my last year of school ever, (I never went to college) Scott and Dennie Gordon were my little gang. My nickname "Garce" was in fact the name Dennie gave me. She had nicknames for everybody. Dennie was in the school drama group. Dennie was pretty slick.

Scott was kind of a rich kid, rich compared to the rest of us anyway, which wasn't saying much. He was one of the few kids around who had both parents living with him. His father was an engineer at Honeywell, and for his birthday bought him a laser you could build from a kit. This was 1970, when lasers were new and big. It made a sparkling penny sized spot of red light. Scott made a hologram of chess pieces and if you shined the laser behind the film and looked at it just right you could see the plastic horse from different angles. After high school he began to drift. He was unhappy about something, but he wouldn’t tell me or Dennie why, and he was clearly in love with Dennie.

When a woman named Wendy contacted me by email about ten years ago, I was wondering a little wistfully if it was this girl I knew in those low rent apartments named Wendy. Another doomed girl with an angry single mother who drank and smoked like a dragon. Wendy had a big, lush body and dazzling breasts that attracted every male loser in the place like a bug zapper when she went swimming in the pool. Was it that Wendy? What would be the sequel for her? A movie star I would wish. Anna Nicole Smith, but with romatic success, better management and without the terminal messiness.

Wendy played Guess Who at first, she had a secret. A secret crush? An adult movie star? That Bug Zapper Wendy? No, Wendy it turned out was cautious because she was used to expecting rejection. Really wigged out rejection.

This Wendy it turned out, was my old friend Scott.

He had spent some time in John Hopkins. She was now a transsexual. We corresponded, and it was my first chance to learn the sequel of my friend's life. She/He – depending - had always been a woman trapped in a man's body. Her family had rejected her and she had made the decision, hell or high water to live the authentic life. I haven’t heard from her in a long time. I wonder how she’s doing. The thing about transsexuals that makes their life so hard, is that they are usually heterosexual. Wendy still likes girls. She had a hard time.

Dennie Gordon became a Hollywood movie director. You can look her up on Wikipedia under "Dennie Gordon". She directed episodes for the dozens of TV shows, and she directed the unfortunate "Joe Dirt" as well as "What a Man Wants" with Mel Gibson. I haven’t tried to write her, and I couldn't write a better sequel for her life. I like the idea that if I want to conjure her ghost I can go to Blockbuster, pick up a DVD and she'll be there in the "bonus" features.

I can’t remember ever being that young man, with so many friends, surrounded by wounded people. I just have the relics, the flotsam that has survived the years as evidence. I wish I could go back and rewrite the sequel of that young man's life. Tell him what to watch out for. To treat religion cautiously. To take it all slow. Tell him not to follow the vision of any person but himself. Tell him to have faith, but not too much faith. Tell him Everything Will Be Fine.

On another page, where there is no writing, there is a photograph of a girl. The Girl. In three years from the time of that photo, on a hot summer night in Minneapolis, we will sit at a small table in a restaurant and talk. I will ask The Girl when she first noticed me in school. She is a year younger than me, which means a lot when you're that age. She was a junior when I was a senior. She will cross her long sleek legs under the table, showing them off for me tonight in hot pants, and watch my eyes. She will say she used to try to stand behind me in the lunch line and listen to me talk with my little gang, Dennie and Scott. She says I sounded "really smart", like I would be an interesting friend. Am I am interesting friend? Definately, she says, leans across and kisses me on the mouth.

I wish I could write a lovely sequel for her. The very best. The most happy ending. Some wonderful, affectionate lie to make her life turn out perfect, though I know it will not. Especially her.

We will leave the restaurant. I will take her home.

Before the night is over this girl with the beautiful legs will make herself unforgettable.

Now why didn't I write that?

Something I am sure you would come to figure out on your own, given enough time, is that I am a geek. A complete and total nerd. I can give new meaning to the concept of geekiness upon occasion.

That said, when I came up with this topic (yes, I am the one in need of strangling over it LOL) I had a different book in mind than what I am about to write about. It is my sheer and utter geekiness that changed my mind.

See, if I could pick one book that I am pea green with jealousy that I didn't write, it isn't a fiction work. It's Charles Darwin's "On the Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection". Like it, hate it, believe it, or don't - this book still manages to stir people to talk about it.

Some of his conclusions were wrong, but given the knowledge base he had to work with, and what we have just finally in the last half century come to understand, he did damn good. It's one of those books that I truly wish I had written; it changed history, the way scientists approached things, and set some people on their ear.

I greatly admire the scientists who stuck with it, even in the light of ridicule, torture, and death. Modern medicine, technology and a ton of other fields are their legacy. A legacy I am proud to be a part of.

If I could ever write a sequel to Origins, I would write the layman's version. Not in the vein of the Dummies books, but one that is a bit easier to read and has been updated with new knowledge.

See, told you I was a geek. : )

Pen Envy

This week's topic, coveting another author's creation for  your own, has been an interesting one to wrap my mind around. My imaginitive side has been around since before I can remember, but it's only been the past 9 months I've actually been writing. Honest!

I was reading chapter books in preschool, was the teacher's pet in every reading or english class I ever took, and could be found lost in a book more often than not all through my formative years. I subsequently quashed all that inclination when I was counselled to forego a liberal arts degree by every adult I respected. I waded through Pre-Med until I finally figured out that I couldn't skate through org chemistry without studying, then for lack of anything better to do, switched over the business school into health administration. Thus began a my career as a paper jockey. Ironically, I'm good enough at organization and numbers to have been competent in management, but it wasn't my true calling.

Passing my 39th birthday, with 40 breathing down my neck, I was at home with the kids trying to remember when my last adult conversation was, running an internet business, and moping about when I discovered the instant gratification of e-books. I was suddenly reading everything I could get my hands on.

With a scattergun approach to reading and trying publishers, I saw the best and the worst out there. Whole 'nother topic, but it was "the worst" that inspired me to open a manuscript and write my first story this past spring...the old "I can do better than that!" But today we're going to talk about "the best."

I wouldn't have dared imagine wishing to have written anything I'd read to that point in my life, all print books that were either literary classics or through the major NY publishing houses. They seemed so far out of reach, so far above little mortal me.

E-books? Opened my mind so many ways. Finally it seemed as though there was a realistic and accessible venue for non-traditional genres, non-traditional lengths, and non-traditional authors. I loved reading the gritty realism and blunt sexuality, paranormal not all shined up for a sanitized box-store display. I was fascinated by the appeal of 'everyday' BDSM, and that of gay romance.

The first book which popped into my head when I read this week's topic was Simply Sinful by Kate Pearce. Peter is a young man made jaded before his time by his childhood capture at sea and subsequent service in a middle eastern brothel. When he is approached by Lord James Beecham to help him save his marriage, the request intrigues him and sets the three into an intimate dance.

Under the radar of the main storyline of Peter's interaction and eventual relationship with Abigail, come the raw and deeply felt needs of James. He had been initiated into manlove by a sexual dominant and sadist, and now craves domination, by a man, to a point where he cannot perform in his marriage bed. Abigail means the world to him and her request for him to father a child on her forces him to try to overcome his natural inclinations with Peter's help.

The first meeting between Peter and James is one of the most powerful scenes I've ever read. Well before the reader is made aware of his masochistic need to submit, you can feel the undercurrents as James tries to alternately force and tempt Peter into helping him, eventually using the ruse of calling in a gambling win and Peter's own strong sense of honor against him.

It was my first ever exposure to m/m sexual interaction, and that blowjob literally blew my mind. Reading on, I had no idea how it was all going to come to a happy ending, especially when Peter's affinity for a married woman, and his inability to give James the domination he craves became clear. The eventual resolution was inventive and emotional, and I was hooked. All the subtexts and angles to the story, including Peter's complex relationship with his best friend and fellow prisoner in the brothel, Valentin, flat wrung me out.

I read that story twice that first night, let it set for a day and read it again. Then I opened a manuscript and wrote my first novella with m/m interaction, a m/m/f menage. I was inspired, not necessarily to write the sequel (which Kate has since done), or even the equal, to that story. But write in that genre, that I could do. All my published work to date is m/m and I have Simply Sinful to thank for birthing my muse.

Nine months ago, I wished I had written that...and became an author to cure my pen envy. Tasty antidote!

I Wish I Had Written That...

By Lisabet Sarai

I read a lot, by most people's standards. Since I am a reviewer for several sites, at least half of my reading material is erotica or erotic romance. However, it's fairly rare that I experience that mixture of admiration and envy that derives from encountering a work that I wish that I could claim for my own.

The last time this occurred was earlier this year, when I read Anneke Jacob's BDSM novel As She's Told. This book deals with a power exchange relationship that is more extreme and complete than most you will find in the erotica canon. Maia's deepest desire, for as long as she can remember, has been to be someone's slave--to be caged, controlled and protected. Anders has nearly given up trying to find a woman that he can make totally his own, someone who will give him absolute power over her, body and mind. When Maia and Anders meet, the intensity of their mutual connection is breathtaking. That was the point when I started to become jealous -- in between my exclamations of delight.

You can read my review here.

Ms. Jacob accomplishes what I've tried to do in every one of the numerous BDSM stories I've penned--to bring to life the electric thrill that comes with recognizing and acknowledging complementary desires, especially desires the world considers to be perverse. She expresses, with elegance and verity, the irresistible attraction, the sense of belonging, the fear and the eagerness that spill over into sexual realm, so that every touch is incandescent, leaving marks on the soul. I've already deleted the ebook that I used for my review, or I would include some quotations. It was clear to me, however, that Ms. Jacob had experienced this epiphany personally, as have I. She, however, had much better success in conveying the world-stopping intensity of this experience than I've ever achieved.

The early chapters of As She's Told are near perfect. However, as I read further, I became a bit frustrated by the novel, because nothing really happens. Anders takes Maia deeper and deeper into submission, turning her into an animal, a thing for his pleasure. The tale focuses on ever more extreme tests of Maia's devotion, increasingly shocking demonstrations of her utter servitude. There is no climax, no conflict really, nothing to propel the story but kink. In some ways, I feel that Ms. Jacob squandered the stunningly realistic depiction of Maia's and Anders' early connection by turning the story into a sadomasochistic fantasy.

My master and I have often discussed how a long-term, real-world D/s relationship would develop. (We have a long-distance connection that hasn't involved any physical BDSM in a decade, but I still mentally award him that title.) Surely it wouldn't be possible to continue pushing limits, engaging in more and more extreme experiments, more excruciating and challenging tests for the submissive. There are physical constraints. Yet a continued repetition of the same old kinks would get boring, wouldn't it?

If I were to write a sequel to As She's Told, I'd want to explore this question. Maybe Anders would try something that would physically damage his slave in some serious way. (I kept expecting this to happen in the original novel.) He'd come to realize how deeply he loved Maia and recognize that his arrogant superiority needed to be tempered by real world concerns. (This is the theme of my own story, "Higher Power", which you can find in my BDSM collection Rough Caress.)

Maybe Maia would discover that there was in fact some limit, some boundary, that she could not or would not cross. Perhaps Anders would get bored and find another slave, setting Maia free. How would she survive after having every detail of her life dictated by her master for more than a year? Or perhaps some natural or man-made disaster might separate them and the sequel could focus on their struggles to reunite, struggles that might require paradoxical assertiveness from Maia, patience and resignation from Anders.

There are many possibilities. Of course, I'll never write this sequel. For a long time, though, I've toyed with the idea of writing a successor to Raw Silk. I've penned a couple of chapters, but after all this time (I wrote this novel over a decade ago), my sense of the characters has become less vivid. If I did continue, the focus of the book would be on infidelity and forgiveness. Gregory is the same sort of absolutist as Anders, but Kate is not nearly as pliant as Maia. Although Gregory awakened her submissive tendencies, she would never allow him to make her into a thing. And she has an erotic imagination, fostered by her experiences in Thailand, that might not be completely satisfied even by a creative Dom like Gregory.

In any case, I've gotten over my envy of Ms. Jacob, though I still admire her accomplishment. And I'd love to see her write a sequel addressing the questions that her book raises for someone who is deeply interested in real-world D/s relationships.

The Limits Of Willpower

By Ava March

“It’s the third house from the end. Left side. The white one.” As if that last bit was all that helpful. Alex resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Most every house on his street resembled his own - a small white bungalow built around 1950.

“I know. I remember.”

Alex glanced to Mark. The man had only been to his house once. A handful of hours ago to pick him up, and it was dark now. He couldn’t help but be impressed.

Mark turned into his driveway and put the pickup truck in park. Without the noise from the street, Alex could hear the song that played on the radio. Billie Holiday’s scratchy voice seeped from the speakers in a low melodic rhythm. Old jazz? Interesting. He would have never guessed Mark was into it, but now, well, it seemed to fit him as perfectly as the navy polo that stretched across the broad width of his chest.

Discreetly rubbing his damp palms on his thighs, Alex shifted in the passenger seat and looked out the window. The outdoor light he’d flicked on right before leaving the house illuminated his front door. Well, he was officially home. Should he just get out of the truck, or did Mark want to kiss him? Or maybe he wasn’t really interested in him? Mark hadn’t said a word since they had left the movie theatre parking lot. Hell, Alex hated first dates. Truth be told, he sucked at them. Especially if he was attracted to the guy. Nerves clashing with the attraction heating his skin, tying his tongue into knots. Two hours at the theatre sitting next to Mark, so close every breath held a light, teasing hint of his cologne and every move brought some part of Alex’s body brushing against his…

“I had a nice evening.”

Alex swallowed, trying to find his voice, and looked to Mark whose shoulders were turned slightly toward him, left wrist resting casually on the steering wheel. “Yeah, me, too.”

Breath held and pressing down on his thigh to keep his leg from jittering, he waited as Mark’s gaze swept over his face. If he could just get past the first couple of dates. Past that awkward place where every word, every move, could be the wrong one. Constantly second guessing himself was damn tiring. He liked Mark, at least what he knew of him so far, and he was definitely attracted to him. He had a thing for strong, dark haired men and Mark, even with his good looks, didn’t seem to be an arrogant ass. A definite plus.

The song faded, offering a brief moment of silence before another began.

And then it occurred to him. He’s waiting for you to get out of the truck, idiot.

Disappointment and embarrassment washed over him. “Thanks for the movie,” he mumbled, as he reached for the lever on the door.

“Alex.”

“Yeah?” he said, turning back to Mark. But the word was lost in his throat as warm lips met his.

****

Contemporaries. I love to read them. Most of my favorite of favorite books are contemporary m/m romances. But as much as I love them, I simply cannot write them. My voice just isn’t suited to them.


It’s odd. It’s not like I talk like a woman from Regency England in everyday life. But if I tried to write a contemporary, my heroes would come out sounding like stuffy old men (did you notice how there isn’t much dialogue in my short little scene? - yeah, that was on purpose *g*). It’s like my muse has one track - historical - and that’s all it can do. You’d think with the amount of contemporaries I have read, that some of it would have sunk into the writing part of my head. But nope.


I tried once, a couple years ago, to start a contemporary. The idea for the scene was right there, I could see it playing out in my head, but damn if it wouldn’t go down onto the page. Seriously. I couldn’t even get past page one. Very frustrating exercise in futility.


And that little scene above? Took me two nights to write.


I’ve come to accept that just because I love to read something doesn’t mean that I can write it. It’s like the time I tried to learn how to play the violin. I bought one, practiced every night for like a year, and…damn I sucked. Will power can only go so far. At some point talent has to kick in, and like with my violin (that’s really pretty and has a beautiful rich tone…when my hubby plays it, that is), the talent for contemporaries just isn’t there for me.


Fortunately, I love historicals, too. Love my men in their stark white cravats and embroidered silk waistcoats. Love how they are mindful of the rules of proper decorum, but are very willing to throw the rules aside when behind closed doors. Still, it would be nice if I could write a book someday where my heroes could hold hands in public. Ah well, since that time will never come, I’ll get my hand-holding fix from books written by authors who have that talent to translate today onto the page.


Authors like Devon Rhodes. :D A huge thanks goes out to her for the invitation to guest post on Oh Get A Grip! *muwh* She knows I love her ;)

Thanks!


Ava March

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From Afar - Samhain/Feb 2009
Convincing Arthur - Loose Id
http://www.avamarch.com/
http://www.avamarch.blogspot.com/
M/M Erotic Romance…in the Regency Era

My dreaded Chick Lit novel

"Lucy, come quick!"

"I'm here already!" I flew into the kitchen, spurred by the hysteria in Karen's voice, and collided with her at the door. I had to grab her by the arm to keep her from falling over.

"What's wrong?" I demanded. Even with my support, Karen teetered on her high heels, looking pale and jittery.

"We've got a food critic!" she blurted out, pointing a well-manicured finger in the direction of the dining room. "Stella Von Stratten just showed up with a party of four."

"Stella Von Stratten? Are you sure?"

Karen nodded excitedly. My stomach flip-flopped like a stack of pancakes. Stella Von Stratten was a critic for the North Carolina Sentinel. Scratch that. Stella Von Stratten was the food critic for the Sentinel. Her syndicated column ran in over twenty different news papers and magazines, both regional and national, and she was so popular that Travel North Carolina used her reviews for its recommended dining guide. Stella checked out a different restaurant every week. If she liked a place, gourmands from all over the country flocked to it just to try the appetizers. Tables stayed booked months in advance. The owners made obscene amounts of money, bought a yacht and retired to sail around the world. If she hated it on the other hand, the restaurant went out of business the next day, the owners filed for bankruptcy and all the cooking staff committed seppuku with their mise en place. Personally, I did not care for seppuku. It dulled the knives.

"What table?" I demanded.

"Number six, by the big potted plant."

I rushed to the kitchen doors and poked my head out. Sitting right next to a burgeoning Bird of Paradise was a petite woman in a peacock-colored Ann Taylor dress. Her black hair was pulled tight into a low bun and tortoiseshell Prada frames balanced daintily upon her long, thin nose. I caught a glimpse of something very sparkly and expensive at her throat -- Stella Von Stratten's trademark diamond necklace.

"Shit." I pulled my head back into the kitchen. "It's her all right. Did you tell Donald yet?"

"No. His office door is locked and he's not answering. Lucy, what are we going to do?"

Karen wrung her hands so tight I thought she was going to break some fingers. When she started shaking, I grabbed her by the shoulders to hold her still.

"Just calm down," I told her, trying to ignore my own heart pounding in the back of my throat. "She's a customer, so we do what we always do. We take her order and we cook her meal."

"But what if she doesn't like the food?" Karen squeaked. "I mean, Bernard's a great chef, but this is Stella Von Stratten!"

The kitchen went dead silent. I could feel all eyes fix on me. My face flushed with anger. "Oh, you did not just say that to me!" I whispered. First Donald, then my staff, and now Karen; did anybody trust me to do my job right? "Karen Reynolds, this is my kitchen and you know I'm going to cook this meal."

"But Donald said Bernard--"

"Donald isn't here!" I snapped. "And even if he was, I'm still the head chef. Or has everybody forgotten that?"

"No," Bernard drawled behind me. "We just weren't sure you remembered it yourself, Fraulein."

"Shut it, Bernard."

I glared at Karen. She dropped her gaze. "I'm sorry Lucy. You're right. I'm just a little nervous. A review from Stella Von Stratten could really make or break us, you know?"

"So calm down," I repeated. "Going nuts like this isn't going to help. Find Donald and let him know what's going on. But first make sure whoever is serving Stella's table is on the ball. Service matters just as much as the food on this one."

Karen took a deep breath and straightened up. "You got it. I'll take her order myself." She hurried back out to the dining room, her high heeled shoes going clickety-clack over the tile floor. I turned to survey the kitchen. Lewis, I noticed, had returned to his station.

"Okay," I said, working to keep the tremor out of my voice. "As soon as we get that order, we move. Whatever Stella Von Stratten wants, however she wants it, she gets it."

From Whip It! (work in progress)

*****

Last month, I conducted an experiment called PerNoFiMo - Personal Novel Finishing Month. Similar to NaNoWriMo, the idea was to turn out between 20-40K words in the month of November. Because I had three unfinished novels sitting on my computer, I decided to see how far I could get in finishing one of them. I picked the one I had gotten the furthest along in and pounded away at it for 30 days. The result? 40,003 words written by November 29th. The novel still isn't finished, but it is now twice as long as it was before I started.

This particular novel is one that's been sitting on my hard drive for ages. You see, a couple years ago, I made the mistake of opening my big mouth in front of a publisher and saying, "You know what would be really funny? A BDSM chick-lit novel! Especially if the chick in question goes on to become a dominatrix!" And much to my surprise, the publisher turned around and said, "You are so writing that for me!"

Even more surprising, the publisher in question is still waiting for said novel after all this time. I'm not kidding when I say this damn thing has been sitting on my hard drive for almost three years. In that time, I have gone through periods where I've been really good about writing on the book for a couple of weeks, and then something comes up and I let it gather dust for a couple of months or more. Why have I let slide on a book that I know a publisher is interested in? The fact is, while I like a lot of what I've written so far, I'm just not that crazy about writing chick-lit. Oh, I can do it, and have done it a couple of times now. Two months ago, I even turned out a chick-lit erotica novella, A Room With A View, and got it published. Seriously, from start to finish I think the whole process of writing and publishing A Room With A View took only two months!

So what's my problem with this other book? Well, I may have shot myself in the foot. Among other things, you may have noticed that the book is about a chef, and I know jack shit about the restaurant business. That's a problem I could certainly fix, but for the purposes of this story it requires quite a bit of research. Oh, and did I mention said chef goes on to start her own catering business? And the setting is contemporary, in a local I don't live in, as opposed to some fantasy or sci-fi setting that I could easily make up. That means even more research on unfamiliar topic. Plus the whole thing is a mystery as well as a chick lit novel, requiring that I very carefully pace the story and set up clues along the way. I don't mind doing this at all, but combined with the research I need to do, that's a bit more work that I really wanted to chew off.

But last month, I tossed aside all concerns of research and just pounded out the story. Until I ran out of story to write because of dratted "I need to plot out this mystery" problems. But at that point, I switched to sort of outlining, asking myself what the problems are in the story and how could I fix them, and what happens next, etc.

So I ended up with 40K words of drivel added onto the 40K words of story I already had. The excerpt above is from the polished story part, not the drivel I produced last month, obviously. And I still didn't reach the end of my story on November 29th. I just haven't worked out the entire story yet.

What will I do with my poor work-in-progress now? Let it sit again for a couple of months. I have three stories to write and edit for three different anthologies, and I need to get those turned out. Then once again I will dredge up Lucy and her catering business and burgeoning desire to be a dominatrix who's large and in charge of her life. And I will sit with that novel and work things out until it's done. And hopefully the publisher will still be interested when I hand her the finished work.

Life & Soul of the Party

by Ashley Lister

“Mr Hitler!” John said cheerfully. “It’s very good of you to join us. I didn’t really want you to attend, because I think you’re an odious little prick, but my wife invited you because she wanted to know if it was true about you only having one testicle.”

Hitler shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other. The night behind him was as black as cemeteries. He frowned. “Das ist korrekt.”

John leaned back into the hallway. “Jane,” he cried. “Hitler says it’s true. He’s only got one ‘nad.”

Jane’s voice came from the kitchen at the other end of the hall. It carried easily over the conversation and clamour that burbled from the rest of the bustling party.

“Seriously?” she called.

“Seriously,” he assured her.

“Has he shown you?”

John held up a finger, indicating Hitler should wait at the porch. Pushing past Einstein, Wordsworth and Cleopatra, squeezing between Socrates, Lincoln, Marie Curie and Marilyn Monroe, he walked briskly to the kitchen where Jane was discussing wines with the Marquis de Sade.

“Sweetheart,” he began, interrupting their conversation. “I’ve sold my soul to Satan so we can host this ultimate dinner party. On reflection, I’m beginning to think it was an unwise move, which I shall dwell on later during a moment of interior monologue. But for now, I must insist that I’ve already gone above and beyond the call of duty.”

Jane regarded him with an innocent pout. She stretched the expectant pause to infinity. “Your point being?” she asked eventually.

“My point being that I’ve done enough to organise this party and I’m not going to spend one moment of my evening examining Adolf Hitler’s sac to count the number of his balls. Even if that counting exercise means I don’t have to count higher than one, I refuse to do it. If you’re so desperate for proof I suggest you go and look for yourself.”

Jane smiled tightly. She gave the Marquis a brief peck on his cheek, excused herself, and then hurried out of the kitchen toward the front door.

“Your wife is a charming hostess,” the Marquis murmured.

John nodded. “That’s not much of a compliment coming from a man who poisoned prostitutes whilst trying to feed them aphrodisiacs. It’s nearly as flattering as when the Borgias said they liked Jane’s cooking.” He took a glass of mineral water from the fridge and walked over to Jesus.

Jesus considered him sternly. “It’s not a party trick, my son.”

“Of course not,” John agreed. Despite his words, he urged the glass closer to Jesus.

Jesus rolled his eyes. With resigned weariness he placed a calloused finger against the rim of John’s glass of mineral water. The clear liquid instantly changed to the rich, bloody hues of a cabernet sauvignon. John laughed cheerfully.

“Amazing trick, man.”

“It’s not a party trick, son.”

“No,” John agreed, sipping the rich flavour of perfectly fermented blackcurrants. “It’s not a party trick. It’s an amazing party trick.”

Jesus regarded him sceptically. “Did you really give your soul for this?”

And then he was gone, walking away between a pair of nuns, like a pimp on a promise. And John was left alone with his miraculous cabernet sauvignon, and the bitter aftertaste that made him fear he had made a grave and terrible mistake.

He had lived his life an atheist, content in the existentialist belief that the universe was without order and there was no God. When the opportunity to sell his soul had come along – a personal ad on Craigslist – John had leapt at the opportunity. To his mind, a soul was as useful and valuable as battery-operated wool. Any profit he could gain from selling his soul would be as pure as the profit derived from selling an invisible friend.

But now he was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake. He wasn’t one to subscribe to arguments of logical persuasion but Satan’s interest in his soul was making John believe it might have had some extrinsic worth. And, when he contemplated the known existence of Satan (or, at least, the known existence of Satan’s hotmail address and his ability to organise parties) John began to wonder if the universe was as Godless as he and Jane had always believed.

Not that he was prepared to concede that a negative invariably proved a positive. But Jesus, son of God, was at the party and had just (miraculously) changed his Perrier into Cabernet Sauvignon. And, John realised, if there was a God, perhaps the human soul had some worth or value he hadn’t previously considered.

Bitterly, he wondered if he should have sent God an invitation to the party, to prove whether or not the deity existed. If he’d been a pantheist instead of an atheist, John figured God would already have been at the party.

But, regardless of whether or not God existed, John wondered if the ultimate dinner party was really what he wanted. Satan had assured him the party would last until he grew tired of the situation and John didn’t think he would ever grow weary of associating with historical giants and legendary idols. But he was also aware that the fragmented nature of the occasion – and the fact that there were so many other people present – was all reminiscent of Jean Paul Satre’s hell. But could it really be hell when he was basking in the companionship of his idols from history?

“John!” Jane called from the doorway. “John! You have to come and look at Hitler’s ball sac. It’s the most grotesque thing I’ve ever seen.”

***

The snob in me has always wanted to write a literary masterpiece that is thought-provoking and insightful. However, whenever I attempt such highbrow writing, I usually end up with the contrived drivel you’ve just read.

I know where the problem lies. To write a genre you need to read a genre: and I can seldom manage more than three chapters of pseudo-intellectual bullshit before I sack off the product and reach for a more edifying horror novel or erotic masterpiece.

Yet the snob deep within me would dearly love to write something that is so complex and self-indulgent it’s virtually inaccessible. Mind you, the problem then would be finding a publisher…