The Post That Wasn’t

by | May 21, 2013 | General

By Lisabet Sarai

Okay, so I was supposed to post today, not a week ago as I did, stomping on poor Garce’s post. These things happen. I was trying to get the post pre-scheduled, you know, getting on top of my To-Do List … Anyway, if you haven’t read that post, entitled Stories We Tell Ourselves, I invite you to do so.

Meanwhile, today’s my official posting day and of course I can’t keep quiet…!

I just want to remind all readers that if you enjoy the discussions on this blog, you might want to join the ERWA email discussion lists. On the Writers list, we share our thoughts and information about all sorts of writing-related topics. Recent threads have included: self-editing – when to stop; reality versus fantasy in the portrayal of BDSM; how to write convincing dialogue; first versus third person POV; how to motivate yourself to finish what you start.

The Storytime list is our on-line critique group. Members post works in progress as well as comments and suggestions on other authors’ submissions. It’s very civil and strongly moderated – even the tenderest ego will not be shattered, yet at the same time you can get some fabulous insights into how to improve your writing. As an added benefit, our esteemed editors select the best stories, flashers and poems each month and invite the authors to publish them in the ERWA Gallery.

The Parlor list is just for fun – chit-chat with other ERWA members about anything under the sun. (However, posts do tend to stray toward sexual topics pretty frequently!)

To join any or all of these lists, follow the instructions here.

Let me finish up by posting one of my own favorite flashers – from the old days when flashers were strictly 100 words. I especially like it because it’s about writing.

By Lisabet Sarai
Copyright 2001

“I like your poems,” she said, leaning closer across the cafe table, so that he could see the shadowed hollow between her breasts where the candlelight did not reach. “I like your images. I can taste them, roll them around on my tongue. They catch in my throat like unshed tears.”

He sipped his chianti, adjusted his glasses, pretended to ignore her stealthy hand on his thigh. Her fingers crept over his chinos, aiming for the swelling at his root. He thought of rejection slips, the dirty laundry scattered round his flat, the bills waiting to be paid. Useless. None of these mundane devices could prevail against her blonde adoration.

He stood like iron. Her triumphant hand claimed him. “I like the way  you can write ‘fuck’,” she said, “and make it into a poem.”

Lisabet Sarai

Sex and writing. I think I've always been fascinated by both. Freud was right. I definitely remember feelings that I now recognize as sexual, long before I reached puberty. I was horny before I knew what that meant. My teens and twenties I spent in a hormone-induced haze, perpetually "in love" with someone (sometimes more than one someone). I still recall the moment of enlightenment, in high school, when I realized that I could say "yes" to sexual exploration, even though society told me to say no. Despite being a shy egghead with world-class myopia who thought she was fat, I had managed to accumulate a pretty wide range of sexual experience by the time I got married. And I'm happy to report that, thanks to my husband's open mind and naughty imagination, my sexual adventures didn't end at that point! Meanwhile, I was born writing. Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration, though according to family apocrypha, I was talking at six months. Certainly, I started writing as soon as I learned how to form the letters. I penned my first poem when I was seven. While I was in elementary school I wrote more poetry, stories, at least two plays (one about the Beatles and one about the Goldwater-Johnson presidential contest, believe it or not), and a survival manual for Martians (really). I continued to write my way through high school, college, and grad school, mostly angst-ridden poems about love and desire, although I also remember working on a ghost story/romance novel (wish I could find that now). I've written song lyrics, meeting minutes, marketing copy, software manuals, research reports, a cookbook, a self-help book, and a five hundred page dissertation. For years, I wrote erotic stories and kinky fantasies for myself and for lovers' entertainment. I never considered trying to publish my work until I picked up a copy of Portia da Costa's Black Lace classic Gemini Heat while sojourning in Istanbul. My first reaction was "Wow!". It was possibly the most arousing thing I'd ever read, intelligent, articulate, diverse and wonderfully transgressive. My second reaction was, "I'll bet I could write a book like that." I wrote the first three chapters of Raw Silk and submitted a proposal to Black Lace, almost on a lark. I was astonished when they accepted it. The book was published in April 1999, and all at once, I was an official erotic author. A lot has changed since my Black Lace days. But I still get a thrill from writing erotica. It's a never-ending challenge, trying to capture the emotional complexities of a sexual encounter. I'm far less interested in what happens to my characters' bodies than in what goes on in their heads.


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