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Thursday, November 17, 2016

Writing again - sort of

Excerpt from untitled WIP:






I kissed him goodbye, took a deep breath, and went ahead, so he wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

I preceded him out of the room, heard him walk away, with no more words to say.


I couldn’t watch as he parted the curtain and walked out of my life. Those brief moments spent together were some of the most exciting I’d ever experienced, and my heart broke to think that I would never see him again.


He lived the life I wished I could. No strings, no responsibilities except for himself. On days when life gets too rough, I know I’ll spend time wishing I could be that lucky, wishing I was with him.


He touched my life in the way he touched my body: with passion, flair, laughter and spontaneity. In the 24 hour period we were acquainted, I’d been more relaxed in my skin than I have been in 20 years. I found myself moving more freely, laughing with abandon, flirting with not a care in the world. I danced, I sang, I loved. I was free from all chains, all reality.


In 24 hours, I managed to fall in love; not with a man (completely, the jury is still out on that, as fucked as that sounds), but with life and it’s possibilities.  Yes, he was the catalyst for that. I knew it wouldn’t last, it couldn’t last, and I didn’t let myself think about it, because I know I’ll never feel that free again.


He made me long, he made me want, in ways I haven’t for a long time. He made me bleed love and life, and then injected me with it just as quickly as a junkie shoots heroine. He himself is a drug – quick acting, and just as addictive.


And just as painful to quit. Because I’m sure I will never see him again.


Do I regret our short acquaintance? Never. This was a time to live with no doubt, and no lies. It was the most honest I’ve ever been with someone, with the people around me. No reason to hold back, no reason to regret.
 

I will never claim to know him in any way. We barely spoke of anything of any importance. We barely knew each others names.


And even as my name and face fade from his memory the further away he gets, his will never fade from mine.


As Prince wrote – life is just a party, and parties aren’t meant to last.


Neither were we.


I hope to see him again. I hope that it’s before I’m too old to enjoy another night like the one we had. I hope, at some point, he looks back and remembers, even vaguely, our night, and it makes him smile.
 

Because I’ll never forget.




Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Beginnings...or is this the end?

Remember when I said I was doing this? 

Well, I’ve finally done it.

Six years ago, I started on a journey to earn my certificate in Publishing, and ten crazy, mind-bending, incredibly educational classes later, I’m FINISHED!!

Just don’t ask me exactly what I learned. It was a harrowing experience, to say the least.

Not only was I dealing with being one of the oldest in my classes – sometimes even being older than the teachers – but in the six years it took me to do this, I lost my father, my grandfather, my surrogate grandparents, had my grandmother in the hospital several times, took care of my mom as she tried to put herself back together after my dad’s death, lost two friends to suicide, and three to cancer. My best friend was diagnosed with Parkinsons, and my father-in-law with dementia. And in all of that, fighting my internal battles with (self-diagnosed) depression, weight issues, lack of confidence and increasing self-doubt, questioning after every assignment if I was even smart enough to deserve to be there, and wondering whether or not my marriage was going to fall apart.

It’s a lot for anyone to have on their plate.

The fact I managed to graduate at all is a miracle. But I did it. Now, the question I face is the same one that graduates all over the world face once that piece of paper is in their hands – what do I do now?

My original thought was to open my own boutique e-pub house, which is why I began this in the first place; to become a writer/editor extraordinaire like my idols Alison Tyler, Sommer Marsden and Dayle Dermatis. But then, after a few courses, I realised something -  I hate editing. 

I have no patience for proper sentence structure, or the Chicago Rules of Style. I don’t care if a participle is dangling, and I could care less if I end a sentence on a preposition. The way I write is the way the language sounds to me. It’s musical and flows, and sometimes choppy and crude to fit the situation my characters are in. If I had to tear someone’s writing apart and ruin their vision because they forgot an adverb? I just couldn’t. So, no editing for me.


I found myself loving the marketing and PR classes the most. Maybe that’s where I fit in. But right now I just need to get my foot in the door.

I figure if I could start as a receptionist and work my way up, maybe that would help. And maybe, just maybe, I can finally find time to write. I'm sure you can tell from this blog - how sparse it is - that I haven't been following my bliss very well. 

Truth is, writers block has me in a tight grip - has for a long time now. The voices have stopped talking to me, and it seems like any form of inspiration deserted me a long time ago. I'm a dry well. I've never been so lacking for ideas in my life. And, though I've lamented it on this blog several times, the last six months have found me with no desire to write.

And that scares me more than not knowing what to do with my certificate. 

Even this post lacks the creativity and the wit (self proclaimed wit anyway) that I'm used to in my posts. Completely lacks organisation as well. Scattered pictures and derailed trains of thought litter my posts regularly, but this one seems a little more ... empty than usual. 

Maybe because I'm writing for the sake of putting something out there. Or maybe because I suspect I've been a talent-less hack all these years and the truth is just catching up to me now.

Wow, so we started with good news and are ending on a depressing note. 

And THAT my friends, is the story of my life. 

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

HOLY HELL - has it been that long....

Wow. It's been a long time since I've posted. In fact, I seem to have neglected this blog altogether. I'm so sorry.

I won't bore you to death with tales of writers block and shit happening at home. I will say that I've made lifestyle changes, for the better. Hopefully more good things will follow.

In the meantime, I figured I'd post something - anything - that was creative and in the erotica vein.

I don't have anything complete, but what I do have are a bunch of WIP's (works in progress for you non-writer types).

Sooooo, in order for me to not feel like a total failure, I'm going to post one of those.

Let me know what you think.




Tonight, I wanted you.

Shamefully, embarrassingly, desperately wanted you. I know I shouldn't, for so very many reasons. But then again, I've never been one to pay attention to rules, let alone play by them.

I wanted your attention. I was a whore for it. I dressed the part - short, flirty skirt with knee high fuck-me boots. Holey sweater with tight glittered tank beneath. Red - festive.

Glittery eyes - black and red. The night's theme.

Laughter throughout the night. Side glances down the table. Comments and innuendos, playful, flirty, fraught with meaning, hints.

Dares.

Whipped cream on my coffee, lifted by a scarlet tipped finger, sucked into glossy lips and a promising smile.

Did you notice? Were you aware of me as I was of you, when I grabbed your arm and leaned in a little closer than normal? Could you smell my arousal, my thighs slick under my skirt? My black and red thong was no help against the rush of lust that coated my skin. Simply because you were near.

Had it been you driving me home, would I have made it there? I was drunk. But not so much so that I wouldn't have known what I was doing. That what I was doing wasn't what I wanted.

I would have dragged you to me, tasting smoke and beer on your lips. Pressed my body to yours. In my heels, I was almost your height.

Would you have read the signs? Could you tell that a tilt of my head, leaving my neck exposed is an invitation to nibble, or lick? Would we have moved to the backseat, where we could shed some winter layers, lying skin to skin? Or would we just have made out in the parking lot like two horny teenagers who couldn't get enough?

Or would it have been worth the speeding ticket to get me to your place, into your bed, where you could have me, how you wanted me, whichever way you wanted?

And will it still be there tomorrow, I wonder as I lay in bed, my hand drifting down to stroke my smooth lips, slipping into myself as I picture your smile, and hear your voice. Would the lust still fill me with a want so hot that it burned me from the inside out?

My fingers lightly pet my sensitive clit, the sensations beginning already.

Liquid courage.

What happens when the drink wears off - but the want is still there?

Too many places to hide.

No place to hide for long.


Comments?

Friday, September 18, 2015

YAY - A writing challenge you can see through...

Ms. Tyler, our lovely Alison, issued us a challenge this week, based on a query from the fabulous Nancy.

First, we answered her weekly Trollop With A Question (this is number 74 and they've all been fantastic and thought inducing. Go catch up if you haven't been keeping up.)

This week's question was interesting in and of itself, because it involved an item I've rarely worn, and therefore never had much cause to think about.

How many ways are there to wear sheer stockings?

And after we answered that, she challenged us to write her a flasher on that very subject.

It's been awhile since we've had one of Alison's writing prompts, and I was happy to comply with this.

So, here is my contribution.

Please enjoy. And if you get the chance, take on the challenge yourself.


They constrict around my wrists, the seams creasing my skin with every movement.

This was not what I had in mind when I ordered them from Paris. “The stockings your legs deserve” the tag line read. It sounded better in French, but that was the point.

When I dressed that morning for work, I felt very French, sexy, with my pencil skirt and ruffled blouse. Empowered even, as I brought my boss his coffee.

His eyes trickled, his chin lowered, telling me, without words, what he wanted.

On my knees, naked, my cunt twitches, as the silk tightens further.

Friday, August 21, 2015

We have winners!




With the way this blog has been going lately, I'm going to say that having four people comment is definitely a win!

Thank you to all who visited during this time. I'm sure there was more than one newbie and I hope that I can keep up posting so you'll have something semi-interesting to read from me.

In case you're late to the party, I hosted a writing prompt challenge. The prize? An e-book copy of Alison Tyler's Alison After Dark.


Yep. That's the one.

I wanted to help the lady out with five copies, but we only had four commenters. But that's cool. All the lovely people have my undying gratitude.

SO, if Cammies on the floor, Angel, David and Trix could all send their e-mail addresses to angell(dot)brooks(at)hotmail(dot)com , I shall get your prizes to you forthwith!

(On a side note, does anyone have any idea why we post email addy's like that in blogs? I just saw others doing it and figured that's the way it's done *shrug*)

In the meantime, if you didn't participate in the contest, but would still like a copy of your own, head over to Amazon and hit the buy button! A small price to pay for some seriously hot reading. How can you go wrong?!

You simply can't.

Saturday, August 15, 2015

I'm Giving Out Sex!

Well, not for real. Although, now that I think about it, it would spice things up in what has been a boring six months. Hmmmm.....

No, what I am giving away is five e-book copies of Alison Tyler's sultry, sinfully fun compilation Alison After Dark.



If you check here, Alison said that she'd like to sell ten copies this week. I already own one, but I figured I'd help a lady out.

Alison is fabulous about supporting indie authors, pimping them out on her blog, commenting on posts and tweeting about them non-stop. She edits, writes, sends cheery gifts through the mail and is altogether too sweet for reality to those who are fortunate enough to know her.

Myself, I've been at a bit of a standstill when it comes to writing. Reality is exhausting and the brain just wants to shut down at the end of the day. So I let it, when I should really be unburdening my shoulders and letting it out on the page. It's not just therapy, it's an extension of myself, and when I don't do it, I feel heavy and tired and just altogether miserable.

So, in an effort to start writing again, I'll give a copy of this amazing book to five commenters in exchange for unusual writing prompts.

They don't necessarily have to be erotic in nature, although it is my chosen genre. But stepping outside my box wouldn't be so bad.

So, brother, can you spare an idea or two? Send 'em my way, and get some grade A smut-a-licious reading material in return. (And full props if anything comes from the prompts of course - I love to give credit where credit is due!)


Thursday, March 12, 2015

Dropping in to say AARRRGGGHHHH!

Nothing sexy in today's entry.

Ever have one of those days where you know what you need to do, have a list and everything, and yet your brain says "Nope. Sorry. Coffee break. Catch me after."

And it's a never-ending coffee break?

Yeah that's me today.

I need to do some research on vitamins and supplements. You know, because I'm getting older and my brain is taking way too many coffee breaks these days.

I also need to try and eat better. Which means a meal plan. But I need to do it on a budget. And I'd like to be able to prep ahead of time. Which equals food that freezes well.

I have at least three books I'm reading right now, and another dozen I owe reviews on. Not to mention calls I'd like to submit for.

On top of ALL of that - I need to find another job. One where I can make grown up money. One where I'm not the only woman in a group of juvenile testosterone-laden men who seem to forget I'm there half the time. One where I can be creative and make a difference, and have fun and enjoy working. One where I wake up most mornings looking forward to what the day is going to bring.

And yet....

"Sorry. Still on my coffee break."

I can't seem to fight it. A friend has called it mental exhaustion. I have no idea. I just know that my to-do list is growing, and my mental coffee break went from a fifteen to a dinner date.

So I'm staring at the boob-tube more hours than I care to admit. And nothing is getting accomplished. Except the days are passing by faster than I can count. And I'm worried that they'll all pass me by and all that I'll wind up with is the leftovers my brain brings back from it's dinner date.

And I hate leftovers.