Writings and ramblings

It’s nice to be reassured that sometimes writing isn’t just putting down the words. It’s also the time taken to think and consider and wonder why the hell this story you’re working on right now just lacks a certain something. Turns out the past few hours or so I’ve had shifting words about, being a little distracted by other things, and tapping my fingers to my temple were more fruitful than I first thought. Found the missing ingredient. Now to go back and incorporate the damn thing. Will make the piece longer than I anticipated, but not that much longer, and probably worth it in the end. Nice what just one additional bit of plot can do for you. I think I may put this one aside for the afternoon though and focus on something due at the end of the month. (Actually, that would be a very wise idea – end of the month is fast upon us!)

Also, I have finally sorted out the cross-posting between here (the WordPress blog itself), Tumblr, Dreamwidth, and Twitter. So am very pleased about that. Saves me a lot of copy and paste jobs I was doing before. Which leaves Facebook, but I kind of prefer posting the link straight there so that one little thing is fine.

Mirrored from Edge of Genre.

It is fast approaching Tuesday (and my father’s birthday on this side of the world – Happy Birthday Dad!) and, oop, there it goes, midnight and I’m still up. Was at work today, er, yesterday, unusually, to take notes for a meeting – vaguely disappointed that a certain eye-catching lecturer who usually makes these meetings was not there, but somewhat made up for by another new distraction arriving. Back in later today, but I have Wednesday and Thursday off.

So what’s happened since Saturday? Little – Sunday was low-key, spent a good deal of time being fed by my housemate (he was cooking for visiting friends) and reading The Unicorn by Lise Gotfredsen – fascinating book and has rather rewritten much of how I think of unicorn’s – this is not Peter S. Beagle’s creature, as lovely and elegant and strong as she is. Giving me ideas that I don’t need either – not going to pursue them straight away, mind, but am noting things down as I read. Capture and keep, capture and keep – but I must not run after them.

I did manage something productive writing wise – contacted the publisher of the anthology I wanted to submit to but missed the deadline for, and checked if they’d still consider it at least as part of their regular submissions, and the response was yes, so that’s very good to hear. Would like to get it done soon, but that won’t be happening until Wednesday, but the pressure is slightly off and hopefully that will mean I can produce something good from it. I don’t quite feel I’ve gotten to what the crux of the piece is yet, what its heart is, so am hoping some more time with it will get me there.

Chinese New Year of course has come, and as many well know it is the Year of the Dragon. Will it be the year of my dragon? A year of getting some proper research done on the wretched thing? Let’s hope. Would like to kick off the Dragon Project, but when to find the time…a Thursday job perhaps. But now for bed, and to post more of ‘Water and Dust.’

And the snowdrops are out so you have a snowdrop picture today.

Photo credit: wwarby @ flickr

Mirrored from Edge of Genre.

Been a full on week, and mostly dancing related; Tuesday teaching kicked off again, as did the Wednesday night class I go to, followed by a meeting on Thursday and a very late night dem-ing and helping run a ceilidh at a local barracks on Friday.

So today have done little that is productive. Met up with a friend for coffee, and watch Red Road in the morning on LoveFilm instant. Initially had it on my list because Tony Curran is in it (oh man, he’s lovely to look at, and on a fraction less shallow scale, impressed me as Vincent van Gough in Doctor Who and King Stephen in Pillars of the Earth), but came away exceedingly impressed with Kate Dickie’s (who I knew I’d seen before but it took a net search to realise she is Lysa Arryn in Game of Thrones performance, and curious about director Andrea Arnold’s other films. Atmospheric, beautifully made and gripping (and just to show what a one-track mind I have, it also featured a very compelling sex scene, which I suspect one wasn’t meant to find hot, but, well…Tony Curran as I said.)

(Tangentially, I wonder what Arnold was trying to say with the many inclusions of random and not so random shots of dogs – I have my thoughts but that would give away the ending a bit much and it works better not knowing where it’s all going. Update: Interesting review (with spoilers) here that theorises not only on the dogs but the use of other animals in the film.)

But, now for some more sentences.

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Continued from here

Brendan reached out to Marc’s shoulder, brushing over his skin, frowning as his fingers found the scratches. “You’re hurt.”

Marc’s eyes fell to Brendan’s fingers on his shoulder. Holding the rifle and the lantern, Marc couldn’t touch him back. He shrugged. “Just scratches.”

“Still…”

Brendan’s gaze shifted up to the night sky. Marc followed it. In their hurry, they hadn’t noticed the moon, not quite full, hanging in a cloudless sky.

Brendan grinned. “Now there’s a thought.”

Continued here

Mirrored from Edge of Genre.

So now this has a title AND plot that it didn't have before yesterday. It was meant to be a vignette! My brain sometimes, I despair of it (though do enjoy the little surprises it decides to fling up my way too.)

Continued from here

A rustle through the grass, and Marc's body stiffened. Brendan's rifle went up.

The dogs barked and leapt around, one making a dash for it from behind Marc, only to be jerked back by the leash. When a flash of furry ears bounded above the line of grass, Brendan snickered.

"Fucking rabbits." He put the rifle to his shoulder, and sauntered back to one of the dogs, bending to rub its head with his knuckles. "Daft mongrels, this lot." Brendan cupped the dogs jaw, shaking it with mock sternness. "Be the death of us one day."

--
TBC

Original post here

Going to do a new lot of six sentences daily - I enjoyed doing it before. This time is a piece I have already begun, but I can't quite figure out what to do with it, so I figure this may be the place to explore a little - with such a short limit of sentences it means I have room to breath as a writer.

Not exactly erotica, maybe a little sensual? I'm not overly fond of labeling my work 'romance' as I feel that implies following the conventions of Romance Novels, but it is about a relationship, so there is an element of that I suppose.

No title yet either.

And this is actual eight sentences. Tomorrow only six. Promise. ;)

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The dogs at the perimeter fence barked; rough, ringing sounds reaching the house, a distant warning. Marc and Brendan shot out the door, time only pull on rubber boots, and grab lanterns, and their rifles.

Ahead of Marc, Brendan's bathrobe flapped and snapped, his slender body a dart through the trees. Marc cursed, not slowing down but wishing he'd thought to pull on a shirt, as the twigs and branches and sharp leaves scratched his bare skin. Brendan wouldn't even break a sweat by the time they reached there, while Marc's ribs were already heaving from exertion.

At the fence, once pasted the gate, Marc lifted the the lantern up, casting the light outward from them and the three dogs going still going wild, a ring of yellow in the darkness. Brendan, leaving his on the ground, ventured further into the night, towards the long grass, rifle held forward but not at the ready. The hairs on Marc's chest stirred in the hot night air, and even though he needed the air, he held his breath, and his rifle, tight.

--
TBC

Photo credit: Toni Kaarttinen at Flickr under the Creative Commons License.

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Original post here

In the past two weeks I’ve received to bits of news in the erotic publishing world that’s made me quite sad. First, the publisher on Erotica Apocrypha, Freaky Fountain Press, has announced it’s closing, though the store will remain open for a couple of years until the rights of their four, soon to be five, publications run out. Which is such a shame, because Robin and Catherine started something that I think was very interesting and daring in the world of erotica, particularly in the current state of the genre. Freaky Fountain set out to highlight the taboo and the extreme, to not expect a happy end or sanitised sex, but to explore it for every pore, crevice, desire and dark corner of the human (and not so human) mind and body. Whilst I understand the reasons for Robin and Catherine’s decision, they will be missed. As I said, the store is still open, so if you go along to the site, see if there is something (or several somethings!) that might interest you.

And then yesterday I read the news that Filament Magazine would be putting out its last issue next month. Now I read this at work, which might have been a good thing, because I think if I’d been at home I might grabbed a bottle of plonk immediately and guzzled the lot. Now this is not just because it was Filament who published my first professional piece, but because I totally believed in what they were doing. Like Freaky Fountain, they were presenting something different. They celebrated that women have eyes not just for shiny new frocks but for men, and that they wanted to read about many things from history to film critique to societal commentary to a touch of burlesque. That we are both intelligent and sexual creatures. Again, I respect Suraya’s decision to bring it to an end, but seriously, getting these two bits of news quickly upon each other has made me a little melancholy.

But all things end, somehow or another, and so, here’s to both Freaky Fountain and Filament and the wonderful people behind them. You have done something interesting and amazing and got people talking and above all thinking, and entertained people greatly too. You can’t ask for more than that.

Mirrored from Edge of Genre.

Continued from here

She curls her finger around, so the flat of her nail runs smooths across his nape. He exhales, and seems to relax, as if anticipating that she’ll stop.

That makes her smirk.

She turns the nail again, now so the point is pressed down, a tiny furrow forming in his skin as she draws it down to his collar. When she crosses it over the vertebra where his neck bends, the bone hard under her touch. And as she brings it back up again, he’s panting, low enough that only she can hear him.

Continue

Mirrored from Edge of Genre.

Continued from here

He gasps, and stumbles forward, only catching himself just in time before his face hits the glass beneath. Out of the corner of her eye she sees his fingers curl up, slowly, insect-like, now gripping the wood of the case below. Once more she grins, and swirls her finger tip up back along his neck. The fine hairs there brush against her skin. She hears him whimper, and the sound breaks the quiet air so much that only now, she looks around. Has anyone seen them?

–
Continue

Mirrored from Edge of Genre.

Continued from here

By the time they have looked at all the cases on the walls, at least five people have come and gone from the room, all showing stern interest but not grasping what he does about the paintings. She smiles; they still have the upright cases in the centre to pour over.

When he bends down, grinning at the lid of a tiny oval box – black lacquer, bright with green and soft pink – the collar of his shirt slides back, revealing the nape of his neck. The hairs on the back of her own raise. She catches her breath. It is smooth, pale, and elegantly elongates as he cranes forward even further for a closer look.

Continue here

Mirrored from Edge of Genre.

He’s up so close to the glass that his breath fogs a tiny patch; a spot of frost on the clear pane. She smiles at the focus of his gaze on the water colour displayed in the case, protected from his intensity and his undoubted desire to touch and feel the brush strokes.

“These are amazing,” he breaths.

She responds in a whisper. “Yes.” She returns to looking at the painted roses and the snow drops, aware as ever of the orbit of heat emanating from his body.

–
Continue…

Mirrored from Edge of Genre.