Hairballs of Genius

Fear of Finishing…


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Is it real? I think maybe it might be. It’s sort of like being a parent. Everything we write, they’re all our babies.

The longer pieces are like teen-aged children. They take much longer to finish growing up, and even then we still have to send them off to college to polish them up a little bit. There is that fear of letting them out into the world on their own, because from that moment on, it’s pretty much all on them. Sink or swim, we’ll finally know for sure what our children are made of.

Will they soar to the heavens like we know they have the potential to do? Will they become stars? Or will they just sink into oblivion like millions, billions, of others because they’re just not as original as we like to think they are? We worry about our written babies in the same way.

Will it be a best seller?

Will it launch my career?

Is it really good enough, perfect enough?

Will anyone buy it at all?

Will it really be typo free?

Will anyone like it?

Is the cover a design that portrays the feel and theme of the book?

Is the text legible enough in a thumbnail size to be easily read by browsing customers?

The questions go on, most of the questions coming up several times in the span of that first minute.

I know this because it’s how I feel any time I get close to finishing. And then I don’t finish because my best friend, Self Doubt, sits down next to me and gives me a really good talking too. Is there any chance my real best friend, Encouragement, could sit down with me and have a conversation?

Maybe the two of us could get together some day and change the locks so Self Doubt (what a bitch she is!) can’t even get into my house anymore.

I guess the point is, I’m what you might call… afraid to finish my stories. Why? Because of all those questions and so many more. Because when it’s done, it’s out of my hands. Kind of like in September when my son will plunk his little but down on the school bus for the first time. As soon as he’s on that bus, he’ll be out of my hands too.

So. No more fear. Just pride and a sense of accomplishment that I’ve done what I set out to do: finished writing a book. Or a story. Or a poem. Or whatever it was that I chose to write. No more mostly-finished works. No more questioning my abilities. I know I can do it, and I know that when I finish my works, they’ll be the best they possibly can be at that time.

I’m Not A Man: The Woes of Writing First Person From the POV of a Man


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Still putting in an effort to finish off (pun may or may not have been intended; I’ll let you decide) the sex scene for my short story, Employee Benefits, Sierra commented that I should try writing it from Nate’s (my MMC) POV, even though it’s first person Lacie’s POV. Well now. That was a thought. Albeit a passing thought as I drifted off to sleep one night, only to be forgotten by the time I woke again. (Thanks for the reminder!)

Another friend threw out a number of ideas for me when I told her I was trying to write the scene from Nate’s POV. But she got me thinking about silly things that could happen. But… this scene is too hot for the silliness of real sex. (You know, the awkward positions that just don’t work because you’re not flexible enough, the slappy/squishy/sucky noises, the wet spots… that stuff.) I started writing it from his POV.

But it’s really tough.

I have no idea what it feels like when a ding-a-ling starts perking up. I have no idea what it feels like to have a fully erect lolly-pop. And I certainly have no idea what it’s like when the time comes to blow a wad. I also don’t know what it feels like to be sliding around in there (front or back) or what it feels like finally sliding into home base. And I don’t know what it feels like to have a pair of lips wrapped around my quivering member while someone smokes my hog either. I’M NOT A MAN. I mean, I know what it feels like on my end of the deal, but I sure as shootin’ don’t know what it’s like for him.

I simply don’t know what it’s like to have a penis. A cock. A dick. A rod, shaft, rocket, one-eyed wonder worm, serpent, member, manhood, lolly-pop, popsicle, schlong, willy, prick, johnson, pecker, wood, peter, or whatever else you might want to call it. (Yes. I could throw in some more, but right now, this is all I can come up with.)

But still, I’m not a man. I don’t have a pole to dance on. I’m the one that does the dancing on the pole. I don’t know what that thing is like on a regular basis. I just know it’s fun to play with it.

So I guess we’ll see how this goes. And what comes of it. (That one actually wasn’t intended.) For now, it’s back to Scrivener to crank out a few more words. And with any luck, I’ll get all my words to fit together in a way that is right for Nate and Lacie. Maybe I need to get them drunk and see what happens…?

Blockages… And an Ode?


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Not the medical kind, thankfully. But of the writerly kind… (this, as usual, is a little NSFW…) Since I’m stuck on my damn story and can’t quite get the words out to finish the sex scene, and in honor of National Poetry month… (Be warned: I might have  Andrew Dice Clay stuck in my head right now…) So, here’s to you, Writers’ Block. *flips the bird and giggles that evil laugh of up-to-no-good*

I pick on myself

From time to time,

And oh, the agony

Of making this rhyme.

***

I gotta finish

the smutty bits

full of cocks

and twats and tits.

Big blue eyes here,

long slender legs there,

soft, creamy skin

and smooth flaxen hair.

Hard angles and edges,

and eyes sea-foam green,

shaggy black hair,

he’s lanky and lean.

A collision of bodies

hell-bent on two things;

the quick heat of pleasure

and happy endings.

She spreads her legs,

he gives her his bone,

crimson lips can’t hold back

a whimper, a moan.

A few more quick thrusts

with his big rod,

he gets her to cum,

and then blows his wad.

*The End*