Thursday, October 26, 2006

FieryGwenivere: The bush plug in your profile reminds me of
C LABRACK: this baby jesus buttplug...that's for a discriminating customer right there
FieryGwenivere: yeah, it is indeed
FieryGwenivere: gotta love that they're all silicone, that is some high-quality shit
C LABRACK: grim reaper dildo
FieryGwenivere: haha, that's what a woman really needs to overcome the pervasive sense that masturbation is wrong
FieryGwenivere: When I had my first holy communion, they gave me a glow-in-the-dark cross to hang on my bedroom wall. That's the shit they shoulda given me, right there.
FieryGwenivere: Same basic message, but a little more punch.

Recent converations with Casey, Serena, Emily and others have shown me that I, beyond a shadow of a doubt, have the most intensive knowledge of online sex toy stores of anyone I've ever met. Whether you're looking for a holy holler or just to save a dollar, I know what it's made of, how well it works, where you can get it and for how much. This is either a point of pride for me or a point of shame for my husband. To be decided later.

Another convesation with Casey, earlier tonight, had us comparing the different styles of and abilities of writers we know. When I asked him to rate me among them, he said I'd have to finish something before he could a sense of my rank. I told him I finished things all the time, just not fiction, and continued to say that I wasn't really drawn to the genre anymore, and, resting on a preference for personal essays, I doubted that I'd ever see a piece of fiction of my own published.

I suppose that planted something of a seed for me because later, as I was playing DDR for a cardio workout I sorely, I found myself writing a few lines of a story in my head. Without my really trying, these few lines fleshed themselves out into a full story, which is rare for me-- most of the stories I think about never get written, for lack of either a beginning, middle, or an end. Most times, I get a couple of good lines but can't link them to anything meaningful at all. When I realized the story had written itself, I gave myself permision to stop exercising. The energy to get up and move may be rare, but the motivation to sit down and right something is rarer.

I sat down at just after midnight. Three thousand, three hundred and fifty-five words and five hours later, I have a rough draft on my hands. I don't know if it's good; I know my neck is sore and I'm too tired to proofread. I knew if I didn't get it all out, it would become one of those unfinished things that I save to a filename I forget and never get back to. Now it's out, and I can do more with it sometime when sitting up isn't such a literal pain in the neck; in the meantime, read it if you've got some time, and some extreme understanding for the concept of a first draft. Takes a lot of trust for a writer to let someone read their first draft. Especially if they haven't so much as re-read it themselves yet.

The Best Man

On with it.