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My Top Ten

by | 5:20 am | General | 7 comments

How many erotic stories have I read, in the eighteen years since I formally entered the erotica reading and writing community? Five hundred? A thousand? For years, I wrote reviews for ERWA, as well as for the wonderful Erotica Revealed site. I’ve edited anthologies, too, which means I’ve done a lot of mucking around in the slush pile.

I’m not proud to admit that most of what I’ve read, I’ve forgotten. Sometimes I’ll be digging around in my review files, looking for something to recycle for my blog, and come across a book I don’t remember at all. It’s a bit embarrassing.

Of course, a lot of erotica is pretty forgettable. Even when they are well written, erotic short stories tend to follow predictable plots and feature familiar stereotypes. I may enjoy a story—it may even arouse me—but after I’ve closed the book and written my review, the details all too often slip away.

Some stories, though, have stuck with me. I was struck by this recently, when reading Emily L. Byrne’s lesbian collection Knife’s Edge. This book includes her stunning tale “An Incident in Whitechapel”. I read this story a long time ago, no doubt in some other anthology. I found I remembered it vividly, and was just as impressed by it on the second (and third) reading as I’d been on the first.

That experience got me thinking about the stories that haven’t vanished from my memory, the ones that stand out for their originality, their emotional intensity, their craft, and their erotic heat. This post does homage to my “top ten” most memorable stories, which are listed below.

They’re not in any particular order, by the way. The fact that they’re here at all is sufficient testimony to their quality. I’ll also admit that many of them have been published in anthologies I’ve edited. I guess that’s not surprising. My memory for these particular stories may derive from the fact that I’ve read them many times. However, I still believe their quality earns them a place in my list.

So here, for better or worse, are my top ten most memorable erotic shorts.

“State” by M.Christian

I believe I first read this brilliant piece of scifi erotica in the author’s collection The Bachelor Machine, originally published in 2003, and then in several later collections. In this wonderfully ironic reversal of cyberpunk conventions, the protagonist, Fields, is turned on by the challenge of impersonating a sex robot: a blue-skinned, manga-eyed, perfectly proportioned Mitsui Class B Automaton. When a client asks for the house “specialty”, for Fields it is not just a trick. It’s a performance; it’s Art. Christian skillfully leads the reader to wonder whether Fields would enjoy sex as a human nearly as much.

“An Early Winter Train” by C. Sanchez-Garcia

This moving tale was originally published in the ERWA Gallery and later in Sanchez-Garcia’s charitable erotica anthology Coming Together Presents: C. Sanchez-Garcia. I edited that book, and I love many of the stories, but “An Early Winter Train” is probably my favorite. The main character is a middle-aged man caring for his wife, who has premature Alzheimer’s. I know that sounds almost anti-erotic, but when the couple manages to recapture the erotic heat of their youth, it’s both arousing and heart-breaking.

“An Incident in Whitechapel” by Emily L. Byrne

Though I first encountered it years ago, this dark tale of a cross-dressing knife and scissors grinder on the trail of Jack the Ripper has remained in my memory as one of the very best erotic short stories I’ve ever read. As thick with atmosphere as the notorious London fog, “Incident” combines intense and passionate BDSM with social commentary and a stunningly ambiguous ending.

“What Was Lost” by Robert Buckley

I found this story intensely erotic even though it contains no actual sex. A history grad student struggling with her thesis makes the acquaintance of an elderly man living in her building. He tells her about lawless days of speakeasies in the Roaring Twenties of his youth, tales of forbidden debauchery and perverse pleasure. He asks that she let him touch her, in return for cash to support her academic career. Though his touch is dry, almost asexual, the suppressed eroticism of the situation really affected me. You’ll find this story in Coming Together Presents: Robert Buckley.

“Willing” by Xan West

I’d encountered Xan’s devastatingly erotic story of a FTM submissive offering himself to a vampire at least once before when Xan submitted it to my collection Coming Together: In Vein. Every time I read it, I marvel anew at the way it explores the emotional dynamic between dominant and submissive. It’s an extreme story, more violent than the BDSM I usually enjoy, but the outer actions aren’t the focus. Rather, the author is concerned with the trust that binds the two participants in a power exchange, and the courage required to fully surrender.

“Butoh-Ka” by Remittance Girl

Remittance Girl’s tale of cross-cultural sex sticks with me at least partly because it’s so strange. An uptight Western woman living in Vietnam becomes entangled with a practitioner of the Japanese Butoh dance tradition. Everything about him seems bizarre but gradually the narrator is sucked into his alternative reality. I particularly loved the sex scenes in this story, which manage to be arousing even when nothing happens. If you’re wondering how that could work, check out the story in Coming Together Presents: Remittance Girl.

“Stairmaster” by Daddy X

This short piece is a poetic paean to a woman’s posterior, as observed by an old man working out in the gym. This may sound trivial, even silly, but the language in this story, its humor, and its brilliant ending all elevate this tale into my top ten. You can read it in The Gonzo Collection by Daddy X.

“Welcome to the Aphrodisiac Hotel” by Amanda Earl

Like “Stairmaster”, this story doesn’t have much of a plot. A woman sits in a hotel bar, observing the men and women around her, speculating about their erotic connections. Her fantasies arouse her, preparing her for her own lover, for whom she is waiting. I guess I like stories that manage to be intensely erotic without including physical sex. This one fits right in with my personal tag-line: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac. You’ll find it in Coming Together Presents: Amanda Earl.

“Remember This” by Shanna Germain

I don’t think I’ve ever read a story by Shanna Germain that I didn’t love. This one, though, has remained with me as one of her best, though I can’t find information on where it was published. Some anthology that I reviewed, I’m sure.

Like many of her tales, “Remember This” is luminous with passion but edged in darkness. On her fiftieth birthday, a woman celebrates with her long-time lovers, one male and one female. The pleasure they share is overshadowed by the fact that the narrator is losing her memory to early onset dementia. She tries to hold on to every sensual detail, to imprint the experiences so deeply she’ll never lose them. She knows this time may be the last she’ll remember. In fact, she toys with the notion of suicide, before she forgets her beloved partners.

“Twenty Minutes in the Eighties” by Alison Tyler

I’m not even sure this is the exact title of this early Alison Tyler story. I can’t tell you where I read it. I tried to find information about it on the web and failed, a situation that rather depressed me as it highlighted how ephemeral our work can be. Still, years after reading it, I remember the outlines of this tale as well as the fact that it really turned me on.

The funny thing is that, unlike the vast majority of Alison’s stories, this was not, overtly, a BDSM tale. A young woman (clearly an avatar of the author) gets picked up by an older man. She’s shy, awkward, sexually hungry but inexperienced. He brings her back to his lavish house in the Hollywood Hills and asks her to masturbate for him. In his eyes, for the twenty minutes in the title, she becomes beautiful.

I’d love to read this one again. Maybe the miracles of cyberspace will alert the author to this post and she’ll get in touch.

* * *

When I was growing up, there were books I read again and again. They were old friends, but with each reading I experienced new pleasure and gained new insights. The stories in my top ten are the same. I hope I can find copies of the last two in my list. Not being able to revisit them, I feel a sense of loss.

P.S. All the Coming Together books are charity erotica, supporting various causes. For more information, please go here:   http://www.eroticanthology.org/p/store.html

The Hidden Political Power of Erotica: A Reader’s and Writer’s Journey

by | 1:00 am | General | 2 comments

“When you write, you illuminate what’s hidden, and that’s a political act.”

So said Grace Paley in a 1985 “Fresh Air” interview. I came across her quote in a New Yorker review of the new collection of her work: A Grace Paley Reader. It’s hard to get more hardcore literary than the New Yorker, but even as I held that august magazine in my hands, I thought, “She’s talking about erotica writers, too! Actually, not ‘too.’ Especially us.”

After all, who is best at illuminating what is hidden from polite society than erotica writers?

Sexuality is, even today for the most part, segregated in private spaces or specialized commercial venues. Writing erotica in any dedicated, and certainly celebratory, fashion (bad, uncomfortable, or punished sex is more acceptable for literary fiction than a good, contagiously hot sex scene) “cheapens” a serious writer.

But most human beings do have sex. It has meaning in our lives. It elates and confuses, embarrasses and enlightens, connects and exploits. To explore this aspect of our existence honestly in our writing is courageous, and indeed political, in the sense that it “speaks truth to power” by refusing to obey the rule of silence around sexuality.

Yet for me, erotica’s illuminations go even deeper. I speak now as a reader of erotica, the twin pillar of our association’s name. When I first encountered sexually explicit writing, through Nancy Friday’s My Secret Garden and Penthouse letters, I was fascinated by the frank discussion of these naughty acts that I’d yet to experience myself. It was an education in the possible, and in some sense, even when I knew better, I took the stories at face value.

Once I began to write my own stories, I came to realize that a creative depiction of sex (or anything) involves choices and crafting, but also an intuitive understanding of what our culture considers compelling so we can connect with readers. Many readers probably believe we simply write what we personally find arousing or have done in our real lives, but I’ve written stories for calls that have drawn heavily from my imagination. I also came to believe that any erotic story, even one based honestly on actual experience, is a fantasy of a sort.

Many dismiss “fantasy” as second best to the “real thing,” but for me, the revelation of the sexual workings of a person’s mind is much more interesting and intimate than the most athletically orgasmic of physical encounters.

It’s also possible that I’ve read too much erotica to find entertainment solely in the descriptions of sex acts. There is as much pleasure to be gotten from considering what stories reveal in terms of power exchange—and I don’t necessarily mean just BDSM. Take a very common theme in erotic stories of sexual encounters between authority figures–teachers, doctors, policewo/men, bosses—and those with lower status such as students, patients, and employees. Polite society defines these relationships as public, proper, and untainted by sex, so just adding sex to the mix is in itself a transgression. But sexualizing a teacher or doctor also humanizes her and creates a kind of equality or even a reversal of status. Certainly during an orgasm, we are all equal in our transcendence of the civilized. Erotica of this flavor is thus an illumination of the humanity and vulnerability of authority figures.

In another example, the theme of exhibitionism can be taken at face value as the desire to perform sexual acts for another’s gaze, but I also see it as a way to reach for validation and acceptance of our sexuality. The illumination here is how suppressed and shamed many of us are or at least were when we had to deal with our maturing erotic selves with so little social support.

A deeper look at our own writing can be illuminating. Which dynamics fascinate us? What haunts us? What soothes? As I mentioned in last month’s column, I’m realizing that I must have internalized the message that a man “wins” when he has sex with me, and I “lose.” I don’t believe that rationally, but that zero-sum equation still has power emotionally. Yet in the fantasies, I “win” because the man’s desire for me and his “domination” lead to my pleasure. My erotic mind transforms society’s message into a win-win.

Respecting sexual fantasy as transformative, healing, revolutionary. Isn’t that a political act if there ever was one?

Sexual fantasy is not usually considered worthy of serious reflection. It’s a use-it-once-and-throw-it-away sort of thing. Perhaps if we’re really perverted, a doctor should be called in to analyze us, but otherwise, polite society says erotic daydreams are best kept private—even as variations of the same are splayed across billboards and movie screens. The first-draft writer side of me hesitates to spend too much time on analysis or the big picture. Storytelling uses another part of my brain. But the reader in me delights in the illumination of secrets, including my own, and the personal power it gives me to make or re-make stories, the food of our intellect and our souls.

That’s a political act, too.

Write—and read—on!

The Ugliest Word

by | 1:10 pm | General | 2 comments

The dust has pretty much settled since comedian Bill Maher’s flippant use of the mother of all racial slurs and his pro forma celebrity apology that followed. I’m not a fan of Maher; his smug, smarmy style brings to mind that of an obnoxious hipster irritating everyone at the party by showing how down he is by running his mouth.

The effusion of criticism, condemnation, indignation that followed was just as irritating as Maher, due to the wholesale use of the term N-word. I can’t conceive of a sillier construct contrived to avoid saying a word out loud or written full out. What? Are we not all hearing the actual word resounding in our heads? Or maybe it isn’t resounding in our heads, and that’s my gripe.

N-word is childish: Johnny’s in trouble cuz his teacher told mom he said the N-word.

It diminishes the power and brutality of the word as well as little Johnny’s sin: Johnny called one of his little classmates a nigger!

Resorting to the N-word is like trying to ignore a pile of shit in your living room by daintily placing a paper towel over it, all the while carrying on in a calm and civil manner. But, it’s still there and it still stinks. Best you heed your nose and your gag reflex and deal with it.

The Maher affair also brought comments from numerous critics that white people have no business using that word. As a writer, that raises my hackles. Words are my tools. No one tells me which ones I can and cannot use. And like any tool, you apply it to the right job, to make a point, or advance an idea.

What idea does that word advance? Well, fear and intimidation, of course, and the notion that some human beings are less human than others. That’s the way it has been used for centuries and how over that time it accumulated its power. Today it’s a verbal hand grenade. But a deft mind can redirect its power.

John Lennon wrote, “Woman is the nigger of the world.” I think that speaks very plainly and underscores the plight of women in a way like no other.

Lennon said he paraphrased a remark by Irish revolutionary James Connolly that “Woman is slave of the slave.” And while the Irish patriot’s observation is powerful, Lennon’s packs a wallop.

Speaking of the Irish, their immigrant hordes were denigrated as white niggers by the American natives. Or even, niggers-inside-out. And well into the last century the Irish were called the niggers of Europe – at least until their economy kicked in and the Gaelic Tiger was unleashed on the global market.

The word continues to be applied to immigrant and ethnic groups. Sand nigger has manifested itself along with towelhead among ignorant cretins pouring their hate on middle eastern folks.

A powerful word, with a long and ugly history, and yet a writer can wield the word in a way that lifts humanity. Mark Twain’s “Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” is among the books most likely to be banned, or suffer attempts to ban in public schools, because it is rife with that word. Its story takes place in a time and culture when the word was used casually and without much thought. Yet Samuel Clemens, probably the most humane of human beings to ever walk this planet, guides his young hero to an epiphany that a human being is worthy of respect and dignity, no matter what one’s culture ordains.

Not to compare myself with Huckleberry Finn, but as a youngster I had a similar epiphany. I grew up in a predominantly Irish-Polish neighborhood in Boston. Diversity amounted to a smattering of Italians and Albanians in the mix. Protestants were rare, and kept quietly to themselves. It was a blue-collar working class environment of triple-deckers where the word nigger popped up in casual conversation just as often as “a”, “the” and “but”.

Yes, it was white neighborhood. The niggers lived somewhere else and stayed there, just as we stayed in our own tribal environs. The only place you might encounter a black person was downtown or on the subway or bus. Or perhaps on the job. Not at school, though. This was before court-ordered busing, so everyone in your neighborhood school looked pretty much like you.

The niggers were an amorphous concept for most kids in my neighborhood, and the word was applied derisively, usually in jest or mocking of one’s neighbor. A guy who bought balcony tickets to an event was said to be seated in nigger heaven. Or a guy who came into a bit of money and started showing it off was said to be nigger rich.

My dad was a devout Catholic who took Christ’s dictum to heart: whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.

He had this thing for giving rides to total strangers and it didn’t make any difference what you looked like. I remember being in the backseat when he picked up a black guy hitchhiking. The guy told him he was trying to make a job interview, but he didn’t have even the fare for the bus. My dad dropped him off and gave him a couple of bucks. We feared my dad would be robbed or worse, one day, but he’d say he didn’t worry about that because any one of those people he picked up “could be Jesus.”

I remember Dad complained about the quality of American cars, saying it had deteriorated since Detroit was forced to “hire all those niggers.”

And yet, he made friends on the job with a black man who often came to our house.  We also visited with him.

I was about five or six years old when I asked, guilelessly as a child is wont, “Dad, isn’t Charlie a nigger?” The next thing I remember was bawling my eyes out about five feet from where I had been standing and my Dad furiously warning me, “Don’t you ever call Charlie a nigger; Charlie is colored.

It was a fine distinction lost on a little kid, but there it was. There was the amorphous niggers and the human being you took at face value was colored.

My mother made the same distinction between a “loudmouth nigger bothering everyone on the bus” and the “nice colored girl” she worked with on the job.

My epiphany came when I went to high school. In Boston there were neighborhood-based high schools where the student populations were all white or all minority. The exceptions were the so-called magnet schools. I went to one of those schools, out of my neighborhood, in the leafy Fenway area.

My school was pretty nearly fifty-fifty, white and black, with other minorities, particularly Asian. It wasn’t a place you’d want to toss that word around willy-nilly, for obvious reasons.

I was enrolled in college-oriented courses. It was the first time I came face-to-face on a daily basis with black kids. The first thing I noticed about them was they dressed a lot sharper than the white kids. Sport coats and slacks, and they carried their stuff in brief cases. I wore a tie because I had to and carried my books in my hand.

One day a week – I think it was Thursday – you had a free period at the beginning of the day. The black kids all played chess.

I made friends, they taught me to play chess, we exchanged jokes, talked trash, and carried on like any kid might with another.

Friends – that was the epiphany. Friends enough to meet downtown and see a movie or ballgame together, or ogle the college girls in the warmer months. Yet it still wasn’t wise to meet in each other’s neighborhoods, and we’d wryly chuckle about the way things were. Also, you never knew when you were back on your home turf that some knuckle-dragging cretin would challenge you, “Hey, I saw you downtown with a nigger.”

But these guys from school were my friends. Vernon, Rodney, Ralph and yes, Charlie. You don’t call your friend a nigger.

I’ve never used the word again, except as a writer.

It’s a word, a powerful word. Yes, it can be used deftly, if sparingly, in ways other than to hurt and humiliate. It can fortify irony, and even camaraderie among people who share an understanding and history others can only poorly imagine, and have claimed it as their own.

Don’t veil its power with a silly, childish truncating. That accomplishes nothing. Say it, write it. Because, even when it’s used in its most hateful way, its power needs to shake us all to our cores.

 

 

Confessions Of A Literary Streetwalker: Meet Me Halfway By M.Christian

by | 2:56 am | Confessions of a Literary Streetwalker | 1 comment

Let’s open with a joke: a guy pleads with god over and over: “Please, Lord, let me win the lottery.” Finally, god answers: “Meet me halfway – buy a ticket!”

Back when publishers only put out – gasp – actually printed-on-paper books I was known as a writer who would give anything I did that extra mile: readings, interviews, PR events, press releases … you name it I’d do it. To be honest, I’ve always had a small advantage in that my (unfinished) degree was in advertising and I’ve less-than-secretly really enjoyed creating all kinds of PR stuff. I’ve always felt that a good ad, or marketing plan, can be just as fun and creative as actually writing the book itself.

Sure, some of my PR stuff has gotten me (ahem) in some trouble … though I still contest that the “other” M.Christian who staged that rather infamous plagiarism claim over the novel Me2 was at fault and not me, the one-and-only; or that my claim to amputate a finger as a stunt for Finger’s Breadth was totally taken out of context…

Anyway, the fact is I’ve always looked at publishers as people to work with when it comes to trying to get the word out about my books. Sure, some publishers have been more responsive and accepting than others and, yes, I still have bruises from working with a few that could care less about me and my books, but in the end most of them have been extremely happy to see my excitement about having one of their editions hit the shelves.

Duh, things have changed a lot since then – but in many ways things haven’t changed at all. Books are still books, even if they are now digital files and not dead trees, and bookstores are now Amazon, iBooks, and Kobo instead of brick-and-mortar establishments … and publishers still want to work with authors who want to work with them.

Not going into the whole publisher versus self-publishing thing (in a word: don’t) one thing that has totally changed is the importance of marketing, social media, and public relations. Simply put, it’s gone from being somewhat necessary to absolutely essential.

But this post isn’t about twitter, Facebook, Tumblr, blogs and the rest of that stuff. Instead I want to talk about how you work with a publisher: what they do, what you do, and how to make it all work for the best.

A very common myth is that publishers are hand wringing, mustache-twirling villains who pay for their volcano lairs and diamond-collar wearing Persian cats with the sweat of writers. Okay, a few do, but the good ones started as writers and have simply worked their way up to being in a position to try and help other writers – and, sure, make some bucks along the way.

Another common myth is that publishers don’t care about their writers. Okay, let’s be honest: a writer who sells a lot of books is definitely going to get the lion’s share of attention, but a good publisher knows that any book in their catalogue can be the one to go from one sale a month to ten a day.

There’s a very important factor: publishers deal with a lot of writers – some of whom have written dozens of books while others have two or three … or only one. With that many titles you can’t really expect a publisher to be able to give you 100% attention 100% of the time. Yes, they want you to succeed – it’s in their vested interest after all – but they have to try and make as many books as they can also succeed.

That does not let them off the hook with what they should be doing. A good publisher, most importantly, knows the business of publishing. Often this means they have to do things that authors don’t like: saving money on covers, asking for changes to books or titles, requiring authors to think about social media and audience, asking for copyedited or clean manuscripts … and so forth. They do this not because they have sharks with lasers on their heads on order but because they have lots of experience with what won’t sell, what might sell, what is worth a lot of time and what isn’t.

Believe it or not, publishers are also people: they work very hard – too hard in some cases – to be the publisher they, as writers, would want to work with. As such they want not just to make a book a runaway bestseller but also with a writer who is excited and happy about their work.

Personal disclosure time: yes, I am a writer but I have the honor of now being an Associate Publisher for Renaissance E Books. To put it mildly, it has been an eye-opening experience to start out looking out at publishers as a writer to looking out at writers as a publisher.

During all this I try to remember my own excitement of when my books came out, and all the plans and strategies and so forth I had the pleasure of putting together. It was stressful and depressing, more often than not, but then there were the wonderful moments when I felt the publisher was also thrilled about me and my work. As a publisher, I’ve tried to return to the favor to other writers.

Did you feel a “but” coming? Well, you should because sitting on the other side of the fence I’ve noticed that a few – not a lot, thankfully, but still far too many – writers want to win the lottery but won’t buy a flipping ticket.

Okay, I promise I won’t turn this into a “get off my lawn” rant but I do have a few words for advice for dealing with publishers – and how to step from Just Another Writer to A Cherished Author.

For one thing, always remember you are just one of many writers a publisher has to deal with. Yes, you have rights and a publisher should always respect and care about you and your work but being demanding or a prima donna will get you nothing.

A good publisher will work very hard on marketing, promotions, exposure, new ways of doing anything, etc. – but, and this is extremely important, you need to as well. In short, buy a ticket!

Don’t have a Web site? Make one! Don’t have a Facebook page? Create one! Don’t have a Twitter feed? Sign up! Don’t have a Goodreads, RedRoom, etc., presence? Get moving!

The same goes for following your publisher’s social media links and such. Sign up and friend and favor them so when your book comes out let your publisher know that you are excited and happy about it. Tell them of your marketing plans, send them your press releases, talk to them about the ways you are working to reach your audience … don’t just sit back and wait for them to do all the work.

Social media is timeless: your book might sell tomorrow or next year, which means that your marketing and such should also never stop. It breaks my heart when authors decide that their book is a failure when they don’t immediately see a fat royalty check – when the fact is the book is a failure because it is they who have given up on it. Publishers feel the same way: none of them want to hear that they screwed up by not making a book a bestseller when the author walked away from the title after a few months.

I could go on, and I will in more columns, but let’s wind down by restating the point of this installment: working with a publisher is a partnership. They have duties and responsibilities but you, the author, have to step up and show enthusiasm and social media excitement — that you, too, want to make your book into a magical, hotter-than-hot, golden ticket

Effective Feedback

by | 4:05 am | General | 6 comments

by Daddy X

When I first started writing, I realized early on how difficult it is to get anyone to read erotic work. Friends proved somewhat less than helpful. Either they told me what I wanted to hear or I never heard from them again. After losing several friends, I abandoned that approach. :>)

So I took a few workshops with Susie Bright. She mentioned The Erotica Readers and Writers Association as the place to have our efforts read and commented on by those who know something about the subject.

IMO, Storytime represents the heart and soul of ERWA. Our critiquing process has long been acknowledged in erotica circles as one of the most effective means of taking the initiative to improve our craft.

There’s no set-in-stone requirement for participation in ERWA Storytime, though we do suggest an honor/common courtesy-based guideline: ideally an author offers two crits of others’ work for every story the author has posted for feedback. No one’s going to reprimand you if we have a slow week and not enough stories come in to fulfill the guideline. But over time, if it looks like all take and no give, expect a gentle reminder from our oversight staff.

Over the years, I’ve picked up some helpful tips about offering, and receiving, critiques:

The best way to start

It’s important to formulate your own critique before you read critiques on the same piece by others. You want to go into the read cold, without any prior expectations. Otherwise you’re likely to be distracted by the same problems others have seen. You don’t want to go into a read expecting something, and likely finding it. That will compromise your ability to see and communicate different problems or strengths. An honest reaction is your best guide and ultimately most helpful to the author.

What to look for 

Has the author accomplished what they set out to achieve? In erotica, that goal is often of a sexual nature. I seldom critique erotica negatively for its sexual heat, or lack thereof. My thinking is that whatever produces sexual arousal in one reader will be another’s— “So what?” The amount I’m turned on, or not, is simply an indication of my personal response, not necessarily of the author’s writing skill.

Of course, if a story strikes me sexually, providing a-stirrin in me loins (boner) I’ll be sure to mention it (with enthusiasm). But a negative take on sexual titillation doesn’t afford much help, unless it’s a matter of style or ineffective chops used to produce the ultimately lackluster effect. 

What pulls you from the story, for good or for ill? There’s that lovely passage that’ll make you stop and take a deep breath while you contemplate its structure, lyricism and impact. And then there’s the misspelling, tense jump or POV shift that yanks you abruptly from the flow.

When something confuses you, comment on it. Did the writer use enough dialog tags to make the characters’ conversations clear? Did we lose track of who was speaking? Did the author use too many tags? What was it that interrupted the flow of the story?

The author needs to hear what works and what doesn’t. In time, their level of expertise will improve, and your own critiques can become more precise.

How to present an effective critique

In most works, there are well-done elements, even in the most amateurish story. Mention those elements in your assessment. In fact, lead with them. There is no better way to create a receptive response than with a compliment. It tells the author that you respect their efforts and see value in their work.

Frame your comments so they can be readily absorbed by an author. Try to make every single thing you write clear, correct and effective. Make it second nature to consciously write to produce a predictable effect. It’s a good idea to get in that habit.  

Simply voicing your opinion in a civil fashion can itself improve your own writing. If your tendency is to lash out, then make the extra effort to leaven your critique with courtesy. E-correspondence, often banged out in haste—unedited—has the tendency to come off as abrupt. A ‘critique’ does not imply a strictly negative response or focus only on the problems a reader encounters. Encouraging the author will help to soften the blow of whatever negatives you impart and provide more useful guidance.

Importance of staying objective

As you read more and more authors’ works, make a conscious effort to develop a sense of separating out your own pet peeves. Develop an awareness to discern elements outside your own squicks and preferences—mastery of which may take time, but is crucial to providing a valuable critique.

By integrating purposeful objectivity with innate subjectivity, your critiques can delve much deeper. When a seasoned subscriber has clear insights on story construction, tense, POV or declensions, that feedback can function as a professional editor’s would.

How to receive a critique of your own work

Everyone has an opinion. ERWA subscribers’ talents are spread over a vast range of literary achievement, from novices to professional editors. Because of that, ERWA opinions, taken as a holistic entity, tend to mimic the greater reading public.

 While we understand that our writings are our children, nobody wants to hear that their baby isn’t perfect. Nobody at ERWA wants to make you feel bad. At least not intentionally. Of course, there are nearly as many styles of critique as there are subscribers.

We’ve already suggested those critiquing try for the positive approach. By the same token, authors having their stories critiqued should take comments with some degree of resiliency. We’re never done with the process of learning how to write. Being open to feedback, especially criticism, is crucial to that process.

Your responsibility to the critquer

Acknowledge all crits. In addition to voluntarily reading your work, the person critiquing has possibly spent hours on your piece—unpaid. If you don’t answer those crits, the person at the other end may assume the effort wasn’t appreciated and may not comment on your work again. It would be difficult for any one person to critique it all. We pick and choose works to crit in direct proportion to how much the effort seems valued.

What you get out of doing a critique

Maintaining objectivity concerning our own work is difficult. But as we observe others’ work, we develop a sense of how to recognize similar failings, or successes, in our own efforts.

Writing more nuanced critiques can inform our writing, producing more nuanced effects. (How to shape a narrative without subjectivity for example—a virtual necessity for a believable narrator.)

Remember—your reaction is always valid. The author’s words, phrases, and punctuation are the elements that have informed your opinion as well as your own future efforts.

Bottom line? Reading and critiquing other authors is one of the most rewarding and effective ways to improve your own writing.

 

 

 

Writing Exercise – The Lune

by | 12:00 am | Writing Exercise | 1 comment

The Lune

By Ashley Lister

No time for foreplay
I want you
Let’s get naked now

The lune, otherwise known as the American Haiku, was first created by the poet Robert Kelly.  Kelly, seemingly frustrated with the English interpretation of the traditional haiku, adapted the form to a 13-syllable poem with 5 syllables in the first line, 3 syllables in the second line and 5 syllables in the final line.

I like this form because, unlike he traditional haiku, there are no restrictions on content or subject. With a lune the poet can be serious or humorous, solemn or playful, abstract or concrete. As an exercise to get creative writing juices flowing, the lune is an ideal entry-level poetic form.

Inhaling your scent
Then tasting
Leaves me wanting more

As always, I look forward to seeing your poetry in the comments box below.

 

Ash

Writing as Masturbation

by | 7:30 am | Confessions of a Craft Freak | 2 comments

K D Grace

Happy Masturbation month, everyone! I hope you’re enjoying it as much as I am. Aside from the obvious, May is my favorite month for a lot of reasons. The flowers are blooming and the birds are singing … and mating themselves silly and everything is suddenly made new. As is always the case in this glorious month, I can’t keep myself from thinking about those new beginnings and the fact that many of them seemingly come from nothing. 

At the moment, I’m finishing the final rewrite of Blind-Sided, the second novel in the Medusa Consortium series. Like all the Medusa tales, it’s a big book and, as I work through the final draft, reading it out loud as I go, occasionally I find myself wondering how we writers can create something out of nothing, from the tiniest seed of an idea. And that’s all any novel I’ve ever written is in the beginning. Honestly, I’m amazed at what results. But this is masturbation month, so how can I not think about the absolute pleasure I take in creating something out of nothing, in the solo act of sitting in front of a laptop for months and hammering out a tale that didn’t exist before. Oh yes, my dear friends, for me, writing a novel is very much self-pleasure.

The ancient Egyptians believed masturbation was a creative act in its own right. In the Heliopolis creation myth, the
god Amen rises from the primeval ocean and masturbates the divine son and daughter into existence. Then they, of course, populate the world. Even the Judeo/Christian myth of the first two chapters of Genesis, in which God speaks the world into existence, is a solo act. And what writer of stories and teller of tales can’t identify with ‘the word becoming flesh,’ or with the ritual of creating a world using nothing but words alone.

If creation is, in the great myths, masturbatory, then it makes sense that so many writers I’ve talked to, myself included, find their work, whether it’s erotic or not, to feel almost sexual. That leads me to wonder if perhaps the writing of story is a form of masturbation, a form of solo creation. Certainly for me, when I’m in the throes of story, completely in the thrall of something that seemingly came from nothing, there is a physical response, and it’s quite often arousing. But then how could the visceral euphoria of being The Creator not be a total turn-on?

A writer friend once told me she’d had a novel rejected by an editor who said that, while it was beautifully written, there was no blood on the page. Every novel I’ve ever read that sticks with me has demanded something physical from me. I’ve felt the story in my body and not just had an awareness of it in my mind. That being the case, it’s not much of a leap to think the power of the written word, the power of story, comes as much from a writer’s body is it does from the mind. It also isn’t much of a leap to think that writing from the gut stimulates the libido. When I’m under the spell of story, the physicality of the experience, the way I feel it below my waist, is as much a part of the creative process as the hours spent in front of the computer. 

While I can completely see writing a story as a masturbatory act, even a curmudgeonly introvert like me needs the social connection with people, and the flip side of my masturbatory acts is that they’re also exhibitionist acts. Creation, from a writer’s point of view, may take place in solitude, but the resulting story is very much meant to be shared far and wide. While story telling is an act of love for me, it’s not complete until I can share my creation with someone else. What comes from my isolation is meant to be exposed for the world to see. I suppose like the gods of the myths, I want adoration. I want people to look and see and gasp in awe at the power of what I’ve created. (Can’t you just hear my sinister laugh as I plan world domination?)

Masturbation as a creative act, to me that’s what Masturbation month is all about. There are connections, deep connections to the Self and to the mysterious creative force curled at the center of all of us that, I’m convinced, can only be accessed through solo acts of exploration and pleasure. Those places within us are places only we can discover, and the discovery is, indeed a cause for celebration.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

by | 1:00 am | General | 3 comments

Elizabeth Black writes in a wide variety of genres including erotica, erotic romance, horror, and dark fiction. She lives on the Massachusetts coast with her husband, son, and her three cats. Visit her web site, her Facebook page, and her Amazon Author Page. 

Her new m/m erotic medical thriller Roughing It is out! This book is a sexy cross between The X Files, The Andromeda Strain, and Outbreak. Read her short erotic story Babes in Begging For It, published by Cleis Press. Her story Neighbors appears in the new lesbian anthology The Girls Next Door. You will also find her new novel No Restraint at Amazon. Enjoy a good, sexy read today.

 ___

As anyone familiar with me is aware, I love to spend time at the beach. I live in Massachusetts so it gets quite cold here but that doesn’t stop me from taking my nearly daily walks in the sand and surf. This time of year it’s far too cold to swim in the water, though, but that hasn’t stopped some crazy people (especially surfers) from doing it. My husband and I are used to the surfers dodging waves and the brave (crazy) locals who swim in 50 degree water, but what we saw this past weekend just astounded us at how stupid some people can be.

Not long ago, we were on Good Harbor Beach in Gloucester, Massachusetts enjoying a warm bout of weather. He went swimming (crazy), but not me. That water is like ice. We went for our daily mile long walk, not expecting anything unusual but we were in for a scary surprise.

There is a small island about a half mile from shore. It’s called Salt Island and it’s basically a huge boulder in the water covered with vegetation and seagull guano. When the tide is low enough, the water recedes so much there is a sand pathway between the island and the shore. People, including me, love to walk that pathway and explore the beach side of the island. You can’t get to it during high tide or even normal tide. Most of the time the island is completely surrounded with water. This is what the sand pathway to the island looks like from the beach. Note the two people on the pathway. They give you a scale to judge how big this area is.

This particular day, we walked to the island end of the beach and saw four young people standing on top of the island. There was a serious problem – it wasn’t low tide. Water completely surrounded the island and it can be pretty deep. We thought they might have had a boat moored on the opposite side of the island, and they’d get off that way.

They didn’t. To our surprise and horror, the four climbed down the island facing us and proceeded to swim in the water towards shore. The shore is at least a half mile away and there might be riptides out there.

This is what the island and the beach look like when the tide is almost in. That’s Salt Island straight ahead.

This is the view from the side with Salt Island on the right and the beach on the left.

That’s a lot of water between the island and the beach.

These four idiots (three guys and one woman) swam in water that was way over their heads. We were afraid they weren’t going to make it, so my husband dialed the Coast Guard in case they needed a rescue. We had hoped they’d make it to the shallow area where they could tread water or walk with water nearly over their heads. The first two guys made it and we weren’t worried about them. We were more worried about the guy and woman bringing up the rear. They were slower and in the deeper water. However, they did make it to the shallow area and were able to walk to shore. We didn’t need to call the Coast Guard after all.

They were young, reckless, and had lots of stamina to pull off that crap. We left that side of the beach when it was clear the four of them were safe. Several people had stopped at that end of the beach to keep an eye on them and I saw iPhones out. It was tense and touch and go, but they did make it to go on and do other stupid things. Like kiss snakes. Skydive. Light bottle rockets up their butts and set them off. You know, like the thrill seekers they were.

I wrote a short sweet romance years ago about an idiot who walked to a similar island during low tide and got stuck there when he got drunk and passed out. He wakes up during high tide with the walkway gone and finds himself stranded on the island. With a Nor’easter coming. He knows damned well he can’t swim across to shore. What to do?

I never thought I’d see people actually try to get off that island during high tide for real. Truth is stranger than fiction.

If you’d like to read my story, it’s called The Storm and it’s free on my web site. While you’re reading it, keep in mind I saw four young people pull the stunt for real while on one of my beach walks. Wonders never cease.

Consequences

by | 5:40 am | General | 1 comment

by Jean Roberta

Netflix has changed my life. Not only can I binge-watch my favourite TV series from the beginning in order to understand plots and the appearance of new characters (Who’s he?), I can watch without the interruption of commercials. Watching a backlog of episodes of a currently-running series is somewhat like cramming for an exam, but much more fun.

Lately, I’ve been catching up on the BBC serial Call the Midwife, a dramatization of midwife Jennifer Worth’s memoirs of delivering babies in the gritty East End of London in the 1950s and 1960s. As the viewpoint character, Jenny Lee, tells us in a reminiscent voiceover (in the mellow voice of Vanessa Redgrave) “midwifery is the very stuff of life.”

The birth scenes are certainly not sexy, but they show the natural consequences of sex in a time when it was only supposed to take place in marriage, and when married women were expected to spend most of their adult lives bearing and raising children. They didn’t always have a choice.

In Season 1, there is an episode in which Conchita, originally a refugee from the Spanish Civil War of the 1930s, is giving birth to her 24th baby by her English husband. He seems to dote on her, but he never learned Spanish and she never learned English. Their older children are fluently bilingual, and they translate the midwife’s questions for their mother, and their mother’s answers for the midwife. The proud father tells the midwife: “Conchita and I understand each other,” presumably without words.

This episode raises questions about sex in the context of a long-term relationship. Is it possible to have love without language? (I can hear the cynics in my life saying it probably works better that way.) Is it possible to enjoy unprotected sex, year after year, knowing that it will produce more mouths to feed?

As far as I know, few people in modern urban society experience heterosexual sex the way most people experienced it in past centuries: as part of a bond that was supposed to last a lifetime, and which led to pregnancy and childbirth, over and over. Sometimes pregnancy led to the death of the baby or the mother, or both. I can’t imagine maintaining my enthusiasm for the sport after the fourth or fifth or sixth baby.

Watching birth after birth, I’m profoundly grateful that most of my sex life has had no such consequences, wanted or otherwise. I’ve only been pregnant once, and that was by choice.  For the past thirty-five years, my sex life has been with other women, and therefore I haven’t even had to think about birth control. It hasn’t been needed.

Much of my reading—fiction and non-fiction—during that time has involved sex and gender disconnected from reproduction. I’ve been sent review copies of books by authors who define themselves as “non-binary,” as “masculine” (if not born with a penis) or “feminine” (if not born with a vagina). Queer or “non-binary” writers who write speculative fiction often write about characters who also have a fabulous (in the literal sense) disregard for physical limits.  Same-gender couples in these stories often have offspring in ways which don’t involve nine months of pregnancy and a painful finale. It almost goes without saying that male dominance, as crudely expressed by old-style men like Donald Trump, rarely exists in these imaginary worlds. Speculative fiction in our time, especially if erotic, is a great distraction from the here and now.

I would like to believe that the future of the human race is queer, bionic, diverse, and limited only by our imaginations, but I don’t see much real-life evidence to support a “non-binary” vision of the coming utopia.  As a case in point, I sometimes have reason to explain to a binary male person (gay or straight) how the birth control pill works, and the only ones who seem to catch on are health-care professionals who already understand the term “ovulation.” In general, cis-gendered males have less reason to think about pregnancy than do females, and less reason to research various ways to prevent it.  Even male couples who want to raise children don’t seem to dwell on questions about how babies are conceived, whereas female couples considering parenthood usually consider the possibility that one of them will develop a child in her womb.  And this difference is visible in “queer” communities where gender roles are generally more fluid and less hierarchical than in the heterosexual mainstream.

So I watch dramatic representations of women giving birth in slum dwellings because it does seem to be the very stuff of real life, in the past and—for the majority of human beings—in the present. One hopeful note in Call the Midwife is that health care in Britain, since 1948, has been free even for the poorest, unlike in the U.S. and most Third-World countries. An American fan of the series wrote about how impressive the British health care system looks, even in a TV drama. As a Canadian, I’m able to take for granted the local version of that system, established in 1962.

I can’t help wondering what will happen to millions of Americans if Trump’s administration succeeds in destroying Barack Obama’s monument, the Affordable Health Care Act. The contrast of the apparent working partnership of Obama and his lawyer wife, Michelle, with the uncomfortable distance between Trump and his wife Melania doesn’t seem like a coincidence. Women tend to support universal access to good health care, and so do left-leaning men who can see beyond their own crown jewels. No guaranteed access to reproductive support correlates to powerlessness for women.

Do I think erotic fiction should include more references to birth? Not necessarily. As I’ve mentioned, scenes of poor women in labour don’t look especially sexy, even to woman-loving me. However, I would like to see more acknowledgment that sex between men and women is more than a form of recreation. It is literally the stuff of life.

The Fire

by | 3:00 am | General | 2 comments

Fire

I’ve been smoldering all week.

Last weekend I started a new story, a dark and kinky paranormal tale that I’m planning to submit to the ERWA anthology Unearthly Delights. I made amazing progress on Sunday, but then I had to call a halt in order to deal with all the other demands in my life. I should explain that normally I reserve Sunday for Lisabet to come out and play. I devote as much of that day as possible to actually writing. The rest of the week, I have too many other demands on my time to do much more than check my email and maybe do a bit of marketing.

This story, though, wouldn’t let me go. I pushed everything aside on Monday to write 1500 words. On Tuesday I managed to squeeze in another 1000. Wednesday was tough; I had blocked out an hour, but was interrupted half way through. I almost screamed with frustration.

When I wasn’t writing, I was thinking about the story. Snatches of dialogues would float into my head while I was exercising; I’d rush to write them down in my notebook as soon as I got back from the gym. I’d find myself pondering the structure of the tale while I was supposed to be grading exams or testing student programming projects.

I realize that other authors experience this sort of obsession all the time, but it’s unusual for me. I couldn’t manage my life without compartmentalizing. I divide my days into time slots allocated for different activities. I’m normally very skilled at concentrating on the current task at hand without being distracted by all the other items on my to-do list. It’s the only way I can escape the stress of over-commitment.

So, as important as it is, my writing normally has to stay in its own compartment. When I feel the urge to write, I suppress it until the appropriate time, when I can do something about it.

This story, though—it’s like a fire. It might die down temporarily, but then it flares up again, demanding my attention, threatening to consume me. I really don’t understand the phenomenon. It’s wreaking havoc with my life and my plans. Still, I find the experience novel and exciting. Now I can appreciate what my colleagues mean when they say that a book takes them over.

I’m writing this on Saturday night. Tomorrow is Sunday.

The story is calling me.

I can hardly wait.

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