photo of corroded vintage white and red sedan on brown grass
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I’ve been looking through my files of stories, or I should say fragments that I have abandoned. Some of them I remember, and I remember why I abandoned them. They were just plain awful, or weren’t going anywhere, or I knew that I would never have time to finish them. Some were just completely out of the genres that I write in. That’s not really a bad thing.

Some, I just don’t remember at all. There were a few that were written for drabble contests, and one of them I just posted on TCoA, called decommissioning. It’s a sad piece written by someone whose body is falling apart (i.e. me). It’s from 2011, when I was still living in the UK, but frankly, I don’t remember its background, other than I had some surgery around that time.

My guess is that I posted it on Chrons (Sci-Fi and Fantasy Chronicles) to get someone to notice me there. That’s the thing. They have regular writing competitions, with no awards other than prestige. If you enter enough, you start getting votes, but the same few people win all the time. That’s why I don’t frequent it much anymore. Some of their stories are good but don’t follow the prompt, some are just jokes, some are just bad. Me? I think they just don’t understand me. I just don’t fit genre stereotypes, even when I make it a point to write in a specific genre. Erotica readers want porn, sci-fi and fantasy readers want a little erotica to spice things up, and I just want to write good fiction that contains all these elements with a little magical realism thrown in.

I just don’t fit.

Is that a thing?

chocolate cake in gold colored saucer
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Chocolate wrestling. Surely, I mean mud wrestling, or just wrestling while eating chocolate. (Is that possible?)

I’m a little under the weather today, and I’ll probably be worse tomorrow, so I’ve been pondering. Just pondering. The pic I posted with yesterday’s blog got me thinking, and really thinking in a tangential direction. If you look at her carefully, you’ll see that she has gold (dust?) smeared down the center of her face, around her lips, across the line of her chin, and all over the palms of her hands. When I first saw that, I thought – mmm, caramel.

Not quite, but then I thought about chocolate, the reason for my existence (and you thought it was sex!), being naked and rolling in chocolate, or even better, having chocolate drawn or smeared on me very slowly. It would have to be high class chocolate syrup, like Giardinelli’s, I suppose I would even settle for Hershey’s Magic, something liquid enough that it flowed, but solid enough to keep its shape and not dribble all over – well that has its own attractions, but I want it slow, a single finger, a pinky finger, tracing lines, but not filling in (yet), in a single chocolate line drawing that encompasses my body, and my being.

So … maybe it continues until one of the contestants gives in and “wrestles”. That would be the loser, of phase one, at least. We could award points for artistic expression, sensual delight, with special bonus points for causing one or more climaxes, before the actual wrestling begins.

Make me scream.

There it is


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I’ve done it. I posted something new on The Cult of Anne – aperitif. It belongs on Eirica Johnstone’s obsession, since it is number 31 in that series, but as it is a new one, it will start out on TCoA, until I catch up. After that Eirica may take a breather for a while and I’ll concentrate on TCoA stuff. I really need to write some poetry and some fiction.

This doesn’t mean my writer’s block is over, but it does mean that I’m no longer tying myself in knots over it.

… and for good measure, I’ve just interrupted this missive to write a haiku and post it, also at TCoA, but not at the WritersCafe.org. It’s another in my series of flower haiku, my second rose one, but this one is specifically a red rose – just sayin’. It’s called New Release.

Writer’s block

design desk display eyewear
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That’s it. I have sat down three times in the past three days to write something and nothing came. Well, not exactly nothing … The first time, I decided to use the tag lists on my blogs to come up with something. I tried a selection, I tried the whole list on all 3 blogs, adding words, not adding words … nothing was acceptable.

This was the best – and I use the word guardedly – of them:

dreams, fantasies, ghosts
a nonsense nudity rant

running sex streams of consciousness
blogging of boredom cults and obsession poetry
sex politics and spam stories

tired writing

flower longing – loss

love obsession – possession
sex tarot


The second writing session was inspired by a phrase I read in someone else’s blog, or something to that effect: Cynicism poisons the soul.

That in turn poisoned my rentboy muse, who lies on the floor in the corner of my office with foam oozing from his mouth.

Yesterday, I went old-school, sitting and staring at a blank Word document for hours, and the whole of my exertions was distilled into four words.


tired of waiting

I’ve never believed in true writer’s block until now. There are ways of getting out of it, tricks, puzzles – but none of them are working now. I know it will come back, but I’m tired of waiting. (That phrase keeps coming up.)

*head desk*

Dazed and confused

woman wearing smartphone armband and blue earphones
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As usual, I’m sitting here procrastinating, about to cook dinner – well, reheat leftovers from yesterday’s Indian takeaway, which I desperately needed. I was supposed to go out with a friend, but she backed out at the last minute.

As I’ve mentioned before, my office window has a view of one of the favorite running and walking routes in my city. I can watch people go by anonymously, and there are a few regulars that catch my – today two women, or to be more precise a girl and a woman. I have seen the girl run or walk by for years – in both directions. She is young (16-20), fit and dressed like a serious runner, but why does she walk here? I’m on the relatively flat final approach to the top of a high hill. I could see walking on the way up, it’s a steep climb, but actually there is a short downhill section before this flat spot. Surely, it’s an ideal place to run and recover, as opposed to walking and tightening up.

I’ve wondered for a long time, but lately I’ve seen a woman who I often see running on the track at the gym, where I’ve been running lately because it is a softer surface, and my body has been complaining. I think she runs about 3-5 miles, usually at a faster pace than me, except when I’m in the last half mile, but I’m usually running more like 7 miles. She, too, walks on this route in both directions. Again, she is dressed to run. Of all the times I’ve seen her here, I think I’ve only seen her running once. Surely, she is up to the hill.

I’ve thought about it before, but seeing both of them on the same blistering hot humid day brought it more to the fore of my thoughts. I would say that I never walk there, but that is because it is at both the beginnings and endings of my runs. I run a loop which includes a lot of hills, and I confess, I do walk the steepest of them. (They aren’t even running/walking the steepest part.) Anyway, I wouldn’t walk here because I still have the goal of the top of the hill, and then I would want to run down on the return.

It’s a head-scratcher.

I’m writing about this because I don’t want to look at the results of the EU elections. The UK didn’t send me an absentee ballot for some reason. (I’m supposed to get one automatically.) Is it because I’m in a pro-remain demographic and my constituency is pro-Brexit? It looks like the conservatives are getting hammered, but the Brexit Party is getting too many votes for my liking. At least it is a proportional vote, so the remain-leaning parties still outnumber them at this point, although the final tallies are yet to come. I can’t wait to see the Brexiteers get whitewashed in Scotland!

It has got to come soon

active ash cloud ashes blaze
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Shall I wallow in my pun?

I’ve been re-posting my Bathing in the Hot Tub of my Mind series at Eirica Johnstone’s Obsession, and I have only 6 more left, so that means I’m going to have to post something new somewhere. There are a couple of people at the WritersCafe.org clamoring for something, but I’ll probably post it at The Cult of Anne, too.

Is it time for Ezzie Dryar to make an appearance?

The Tower

Ouch! I think my cards are mad at me. I’ve been neglecting them. Purification through fire. Knocking it all down before building it back up again. That’s the Tower of Babel, folks. Immolation, Annihilation.

Where does that leave me? Has Ezzie out-stayed her welcome? Has her term as the leader/priestess of the coven destroyed her? Is her world about to come tumbling down? Again? Has her sexual ambivalence become more ambivalent?

In case you haven’t read any of them, the second series (More Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar) is on The Cult of Anne. 17 chapters of the first series is on the WritersCafe.org. I think the rest is no longer up anywhere. There are 80 (short 250-500 word) chapters in all of the first series (Late Nights with Ezzie Dryar), 34 in the second. I need to think about where to re-post the first series. I think where I originally posted it no longer exists.

In case you don’t know, I pull a tarot card and improvise a chapter based on it. In the first series, I didn’t allow repeats. I think I did in the second. I use the Thoth tarot deck, which has a lot more symbolism than others that I know. I explain the card to the extent that it serves the purpose of the chapter. I wonder if I should find another deck, that is really out there.

Oh, and Ezzie has an issue. She has a sort of digital Tourette’s Syndrome. She sometimes has difficulty getting the right work, er … weird, uh turd … breathe deeply … word out when she types her blog, and sometimes when she speaks, often with embarrassing consequences. She’s also recovering from being possessed.

Watch this space …

I’m supposed to be writing

Big Red by scarletsuede

Fun Anne seems to be AWOL at the moment.

You might argue that I am writing, but this doesn’t count. I wanted to write some poetry this week and maybe spend some time on one of my novels that never seem to finish. Maybe I’m a little ADD, but I can never focus on what I’m supposed to. Yesterday, I read the entirety of what I’ve written of The Fantastical Adventures of S-69 Lost, which is one sentence into Chapter X or 26.7K words.

Maybe I’ll read Out of the Frying Pan next. That’s a mere 22.5K words. Of course, I should be finishing and then rewriting The Cult of Hahn which stands at 78.7K words. It has one small gap and one large one left to bridge as well as a lot of prefatory psuedo-bibilical verse, and then a major rewrite of the whole thing. I’m not sure I feel up to that now.

The titles may change by the time I publish – if I publish. And, of course, my short story collection The Veil of Sheera and other Tales need at least one more edit. It’s nearly ready for KDP, but I need a suitable cover image, and I can’t afford to buy rights to a photo, since the book won’t earn more than a few pennies. Short story collections have exactly zero market. I might be able to sell a few to devoted followers here or The Cult of Anne, my writing website (see the sidebar for a link), or on the WritersCafe.org, where a lot of my work as well as samples of the novels live.

My inspiration has left the building.

Mirrors and rabbit holes

woman in black sleeveless crop top and white leggings using a butterfly machine in front of a mirror
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A student of mine asked me to take a look at her website. She is a musician, a photographer, and a model. And a model? Yes, I had to take a second look, too. Yes, she is pretty, but a model???

Her website was good, but not great. There were a couple of pictures of her, some professional details … and no gallery. A model with no online portfolio? The site said very little about her, in fact. Then I saw the Instagram icon. Aside from being a blogger with an aversion to cameras, I have no social media presence.  I clicked it and down the rabbit hole I went.

There were a large number of pictures of her (and little else). Some were professional-looking portraits of her, and some strange other woman. Ah, those were her pictures!

No … well, yes, but I’ll explain shortly.

As a photographer, I would have expected to see a portfolio of her work. None there, except pics of a few meals. There were a number of nice portraits of her, and probably twice as many selfies. The selfies: she is obsessed with her own body. She works out a lot – I’ve seen her at the gym – and she documents her progress with “daily” photos, but few of them make it to her Instagram account. She started pretty, and she is still pretty fit.

What about that other woman? That other woman is really beautiful. (Her face is the obvious difference.)

It wasn’t until I stumbled across a selvie (A self-movie) that I figured it out. It was that other woman in motion, and it was clearly marked as a self movie. All those pictures of the other woman were actually selfies. All the gym pics were shot in a mirror with her camera (not phone) obscuring her face, but these were close ups, and she looked like a completely different person, mysteriously beautiful. I had forgotten that selfies were mirror images when taken on a phone.

In the few photos of me that exist – I’ve never shot a selfie – I look like me. Of course, when I look in a mirror, I think I look like myself. That is the way I’m used to seeing myself, but if you think about it, I’m never seeing my true image until I look at a picture taken by someone else.

What would it be like for my mirror image to be much more beautiful than my true image?

I don’t wear makeup often, but am I fooling myself when I put it on? Would I be, if I was that mysterious beautiful woman? How would I deal with my mirror image being more beautiful? Would I try to replicate it? Would I have a serious self-image obsession?

Would I have an Instagram site with hundreds of selfies?