Why I Buy Poetry.

Previously, a post mentioned how reading poetry can make any writer better at their craft.  Today I’m going to tell you why that is, and why that fact makes me buy poetry.

I buy poetry books every once in a while because I love them, but also because think they can offer a number of lessons of how to construct stories and evoke feeling. A workshopping buddy of mine told me that she believes people can be taught craft, but not how to tell a story. You have to learn story telling on your own. I am inclined to agree. The very nature of poetry makes me inclined to agree because poetry can violate all the rules of craft but still support a powerful story. A poem is as versatile as a piece of elastic. You can use it to hold a crown in place, to make pants more comfortable, or to make a foot tambourine(that’s a thing I learned that existed last night). The nature of a poem is something you can alter into whatever shape you need. The accouterments, whether they be crown or tambourine or the elements of the story telling and the evocation of feeling, are an essential part of crafting a story.

When you know how to cut, define, hide, and comfortably place elastic you have learned skills you can apply to nearly any fabric. Yet elastic is a structural component, what catches your eye is how the accouterments are presented. Does the crown look janky as hell? Does the rhyme scheme break without,pardon the pun, rhyme or reason. Knowing Iambic pentameter won’t necessarily make you a good poet. Hell it could make you a worse one if you only follow those rules. But knowing how minimalist elements produce vivid clear imagery that moves you in a poem using iambic pentameter is something you learn by consuming poetry. And when you don’t look at the pentameter, when you look at clear word usage, or even page formatting you learn far more about story telling than reading some novels or short stories. Writers often focus on writing craft over story craft when even the best writers should expose themselves to the craft of story telling. Poetry reading is an excellent way to do that. You learn how to convey the raw story in a dozen or more different ways.

In that last post I told you:

I am proud to say I write great dialogue because I read and wrote poetry starting from 10 years old. Actually maybe even younger I remember reading Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings at some point with my mother’s help. How did poetry help me write dialogue? A good insult should be as sharp as a good poem and just as heavy with the punctuation. A proclamation of love that, I believe, has the most effect can be as simple as one line when you craft to context well. Poetry has done a lot of me as a writer, as a human being, and I know I’m not alone.

Dialogue is poetry. The stupid things we often say can be poetry especially if we’re clever. When I write a powerful moment, especially in a script it is closer to poetry than prose. If I have character who has finally had enough say “I hate you. Go away” to another it can be powerful. But it can be more powerful to have them laugh with tears glistening in their eyes and say “Loving you is hell. Just let me be free.” Poetry also has a lot of contradictions, long verses interrupted by  short ones, odd comparisons, and both broken and praised conventions. The sheer variety can show you so many tricks to showing emotional reactions, foreshadowing, and character building in neat little ways. More so than with  novellas, where a period is in a poem or whether that poem uses periods tells you a lot of information. Read some of my poetry here and all the punctuation and line length is intentional. Why? Because even the punctuation has to do work in a poem.

Poetry has so many forms and variations, but I promise you even the variations you can’t stand have moved some one else’s emotions. There will be poems you won’t understand. Some poems may simply not be meant for you to understand, and that’s ok. Regardless, reading poetry provides a guide to understanding story telling and story crafting. Not the craft of writing, but the craft of learning to tell a good story. You can spend $500 on a seminar, download $100 worth of ebooks on writing, and learn every grammar rule by heart. None of that is going to make you a better story teller without a diversity of reading. They can help you learn the craft, and understand how to convey things in a improved way.

BUT reading poetry gives you examples of how to convey emotion, setting, story telling, and how to line craft in beat by beat punches. Even the longest poems have an economy of words and structure vastly different than novels.

Specifically, the lyrical nature of poems can radically improve your writing in specific genres. Experiencing poetry especially as a romance or horror writer can vastly improve your story telling. Why do I say this? A good horror story should sing like a poem. Do you know why so many children’s rhymes are morbid? Besides as a coping mechanism, there is something pointed about morbid things. They don’t require long explanations. I joined wattpad and have been reading some great horror stories, but have been coming across far more awful ones. The awful ones lacked feeling, suspense, scene, and sense of character. But let’s look at a lyrical example of a good horror story:

Lizzie Borden took an axe

And gave her mother forty whacks.

When she saw what she had done,

She gave her father forty-one.

Were you surprised I used that one? In four lines we have a character, an event, and a conflict/realization, and then a choice. Slow it down and have children skipping rope to it and gets even more morbid. There’s a beautiful simplicity to that rhyme and the fact that this story has been told as a children’s jump rope rhyme even adds to the character. You have a woman who “whacks” her mother with an axe, and then the line is she sees what she’d done. Whether you think she did it in anger or not doesn’t matter because she saw the blood, the gore, and then not only killed her father but did so more violently.

We spend a lot of time critiquing flowery language and purple prose, but sometimes we misunderstand why. The problem is when flowery language detracts from a story or reads as fake. If flowery language reads wrong it comes across as an insincere way for the author to show off their talent. Good poetry flows, and good sentence should flow like good poetry by the last revision of a piece.

Lyrical poetic language isn’t about how many ways you can describe the night’s sky though it can help you diversify your descriptions. It isn’t about ego though I will say a lot of poets love to show off their egos in their poems. Lyrical poetic language is a means to tell a story in an immediate way to get a reaction, which is something many authors struggle with. It’s hard and let it be said that you may not always get what a poet is trying to do. It may not work for you. Still when written form a sincere place poetic language is incredibly potent. Understanding that potency is something that can greatly add to any written word. It pushes you to think in a different way than short stories and novels. The best thing a writer can often do is have exposure to everything under the sun. Not to copy, but to learn from.

That is why I read poetry. That is why I feel all writers should pick up a poetry book every blue moon. You can learn so much about how to craft a story.

 

Check out my two releases:

Suffer too Good and Dirty Honey on Amazon.

 

Editing Chapter One: How to Writing?

How do you edit the first chapter of your story is a question every fiction writer asks, and it is a question I’ve done my share of struggling with. However I think I’ve found the most important bit of advice when dealing with the beginnings of any story, and even any non-fiction piece. Whether you’re doing chapter one or the opening paragraph of an essay, you are doing a fine balancing act. You have to give as much information as possible to the reader without overwhelming them, but also ensuring they’re following along with everything you say. The opening of your story, regardless of genre, will sink or swim your novel. While I don’t claim to have perfected the opener, I do claim to have worked at working around and through common mistakes authors are prone to make. And so I’m going to offer the best advice I’ve ever heard for editing chapter one of a novel, advice I was reminded of by the lovely Stephanie London via her youtube channel.

When you’re writing you feel the pressure to get everything just so because you want to be clear about who, what, where, and why. However, the dangers of exposition are many. Since I’ve been an active member of scribophile I can tell you that I’ve seen my share of wonderful tales bogged down by the exposition fairy. That little butthole flew through the window and just refused to leave from the moment the story began. The exposition fairy encourages telling not showing and harkens back to the way we most naturally tell stories, orally. But away from the oral tradition you have to put people in the story. You have to give them a front row seat, and if the exposition fairy is guiding your hand at every other paragraph, or god forbid every other sentence, the reader will be stuck in the back of the theater.

So how do we deal with this?

Well, truthfully it will always be tempting to have it happen unless you are a minimalist story teller. Fans of grand epics and sprawling worlds fall prey to the exposition fairy most of all, but everyone can be a target. To that end, you have to write smart. BE vigilante of your own bad writing behaviors, and then keep writing. MAke notes, and even make minor changes but don’t edit constantly while your writing unless you truly benefit from it or it has to happen. Then once your opening is written you have to do this one super important thing. This is the thing that will make all the difference in the world….

Go back through your opening and highlight every ounce of exposition.

Reread and highlight. Whether you print it out or do it digitally, go through and highlight everything that is only there for exposition. What lines only serve to explain what isn’t shown? You may wish to use different colors for exposition related to different characters or events in order to keep track. Sometimes I mark exposition important to the plot with stars or sidebar comments so I know why they’re their and that they matter. If your opening is mostly color coded and coated then chances are you need to tighten that sucker up. You will most likely need to rewrite  the whole thing. It isn’t enough to disguise exposition in unnatural dialogue. It isn’t enough to excuse why its there because it is there for a reason. It isn’t enough for it to be there to help your readers understand. If it isn’t furthering your theme, your plot, your characters, and bringing people into your text then it isn’t working. I say to do this because you need to see how much explaining to the reader you’re doing. Seeing it visually becomes a lot harder to justify or overlook. Does this mean all exposition is evil? Not at all, but there are ways to pace exposition and present it that are vastly superior to walls of text that may not enrich the story.

By doing something as simple as highlighting expository text you are increasing your ability to keep the story in action and moving forward, which will keep your audience engaged.

 

 

From Erotica to Romance: The Marquess Series.

This has been on my blog banner and book listing page forever and it must be baffling to you all if you’ve paid attention. Well It’s a series I began writing shortly before starting this blog. So I wanted to explain what that series was originally going to be and what it is now, as well as talk about how our story plans can mutate into completely different creatures.

The original idea behind The Marquess series came from a story titled Come At Night. The blurb:

After years apart, Marquess Angela, the dusken beauty of the old world, and Lord Rion, a handsome boon to the new world, are drawn together again due to Angela’s loss of her husband’s estate to his siblings. With both their spouses recently dead they choose to eschew the formality of propriety and take comfort in each other. However, years of bitterness and unhealed hearts have taken their toll. Old wounds don’t heal quickly…then again if the choice is freedom or regret Angela knows her choice. Will she truly be able to make it or is that, like Rion said, a self deception?

Now Here is the (current) novel blurb for Come At Night

If I asked you to do the unthinkable and uncertain to save yourself…would you?

After years apart, both their marriages end in tragedy,  and life throws them into a net of old magic and politics Marquess Angela and Lord Rion find themselves tangled up in each other again. Is it fate that brings them together or the cruelty of the universe’s limited imagination? With few allies and an old love burning in her heart Angela makes a choice that will threaten her family, her reputation, her faith, and her life. Vows of love and devotion make for beautiful sentiments in her eyes, but she is no one’s fool. However, wisdom can only take her so far when all she craves is freedom, but perhaps that is just another cage. As for Rion, he has tried to mature and be more than family rebel, but as he wraps himself in a woman who reminds him of his rebellious youth he must choose between his beliefs, his heart, and his family. He made this happen, but is he truly ready for what true love will cost?

So what do we have here?

The original and first cover I ever Made. It’s very cute.

What we have is the hardest part of writing erotica…not turning it into a well rounded story all the time. However, it isn’t really a problem when you turn it to your favor. The original series would be pseudo-dramas around the Marquess and her sensual experiences as she and Rion fall further and further away from convention. It was mostly sex driven.

Now, it is a socio-political drama about how Angela and Rion struggle with falling further and further away from convetion and begin to question if there is such a thing or not.  In novel Angela is the dark skinned descendent of the native peoples of their nation and Rion is not. she is borderline pagan, traditional, and seen as a remnant of a savage age and people. Not all dark people are viewed this way, but the general feeling is the invaders did a service by showing the natives “the right way of living” and slowly intermingling. The darker you are, the older your bloodline, but that carries no weight. Yet, Angela is very modern socially and is essentially a socialist, as was Rion. He drifted away from socialism and became more involved in his family obligations, but it never sat right with him. He feels that until Come At Night he spent his years acting foolishly, and is now trying to set things right. Unfortunately he is just as impulsive as he was…and Angela often gets swept up in that.

How the hell did I get that from a series of sex dramas?

Recent cover.

Simple really. I made Rion and Angela characters and people. I defined the problem between them. The original idea began with the image of this long raven haired man standing in the doors of a balcony, a man with eyes that ached and burned. The sensual images of him and the woman he loved gave rise to the knowledge there was more to them then sex and lust. They were deeply complex figures with pasts together and who were driven apart. I wanted to know more, so I began exploring them in the hopes of making the sex more rich. Really I followed the path of The Demon’s Bargain by weaving sex and emotional intensity in with complex story lines. I realized the series may be closer to Outlander or Game of Thrones more than anything else, and I couldn’t stop. Angela and Rion do everything right and everything wrong. Their principals compromise in the worst places and they bring out the bad in each other that your heart breaks because you see the good they bring out. They are two people striving for what may be unobtainable, but they try.

Once you give characters that much depth you’re pretty much boned in keeping it a short story. How can you when you know the characters so well and you find their journeys of love and loss so damn compelling? You just can’t. It feels like a crime and an intimate crime at that. On one hand it is a good thing because Romance novels sell better than erotica. On the other hand wow now I have to write more…but I was going to write a series now everything is just longer and that gives you more time to fall in love with these characters as I have.

Have you ever had a story or blog or article exceed your expectations or original intentions? Is it a boon or a burden?

Coldest Welcome ( Part One: Arcane Warrior)

In the depths of the old wood, where the trees dripped tears over the toppled stones from the mountain,  Mal sat beneath the willows, clutching the totem in her hand. It’s word ivory etchings still held the shape of a Field Spring dog. Her father said it held the power of the old ancestors, but she sensed no faint hum through her skin nor the pull upon her spirit.  All that reached out to her was the winter frost through the long arms of the trees. When did everything turn so cold? It seemed as though she’d been walking along the southern shore the day before. Asan, with his rugged good looks, swept her up and into the water as though they were children and not soldiers. The war seemed so long ago, but it’d been merely a year. If everything felt like it’d just happened did that mean Mal was getting old? She sighed and hoped not. Grey did not go with her sun blessed complexion. Grandma might have gone silver, which flattered her ebony skin, but Mal took after her father’s people. “Least of my worries.”she muttered, as a large wet drop splashed across her head, making her cringe.

A short time ago she’d been the source of much strife in the life of her lover, Asan. He defended her like a noble knight defending a fair maiden, though Mal had never been fair and Asan had helped her cease being a maiden long ago. Yet what plagued her was his defenses of her character and person. They were flattering and yet they seemed to inflame parts of her just as much as her attackers, her detractors. Asan’s spirit had been right until they revealed the truth. It ached and cut in such a silent way. In bandaging he just cut deeper, and how could she say why? Would it even be clear?

“I thought I’d find you here.” Asan’s voice, deep like the ocean and just as soothing, came from behind her, and she sighed.

“I needed to think.” She turned her head to see him trudging up the hill wrapped in thick a thick wolf pelt and carrying a dense green blanket. She must have been gone longer than she realized. She looked upward and the sun had just moved past the mountain peek. It’d been hours. Asan came and sat beside her on the stone and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. A slow smile crossed her face and she remembered all the reasons she loved him. For his parent’s and sibling’s sakes she wished she did not. “How are things at the house?”

Asan’s shoulders tensed ever so slightly before falling, and then with all the irritation and disappointment a son could have when his parents disapproved he sighed.

“My mother calmed father and Bretlynn down. Rynhold is…civil, but displeased.”

“I got that from the yelling.” She managed a small smile, but it felt more painful than humorous. Judging by how he rubbed his knees and he hung his head in shame it looked as painful too.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with their horrid behavior. I had told them of you, but…I didn’t expect-”

“They assumed it’d be less part of me, but my magic is as part of me as my hair, my eyes, or my voice. But I think…I think they expected to talk you out of…of us.” The words hurt as she spoke them, and part of her felt foolish for it. She’d been a mage her whole life. Sequestered, belittled, threatened with things that no person should have to suffer. The rejection by Asan’s family wasn’t even the worst of her life’s horrors. Ha. They should have taken lessons, but their scornful eyes spoke of beliefs more seated than prejudice. Those eyes ,so like Asan’s in their almost golden beauty, told her their beliefs were faith. They’d never see it for what it was. They’d never admit their irrational consternation for her daring to exist. People like them never did.

“And I love every part of you!” He misunderstood. She never doubted that for a second though she had plenty of reason to. He was vigilante of those who could move energies beyond their world, but he’d long outgrown their fear. However, did that truly make enough of a difference? Did he truly ever understand? They’d come here to announce their engagement and he had never expect his family’s ire.

“I believe you…but could they?” she said. He looked taken aback, as though he didn’t expect her to be so blunt. She felt so tired, but what else could she do but make him see things as they truly were. “You were raised by those who fear magic and who see me as cursed-”

“I don’t care that you’re a mage.”

“And that’s the problem!” She jumped to her feet, nearly slipping on the rocks. He started forward, grabbing her arm so she would not bash her head in on a rock. She stepped down to the ground and turned to him. “You love me, but do you see me?”

“Of course, how can you doubt that?” Asan sounded so hurt and it stung her to hear it, but she had to be honest.

“I ask because they can’t and perhaps you couldn’t, or wouldn’t, see them.” Mal began rubbing the back of her hand nervously. Her heart thudded against a cage of anxiety that began to creep up her throat, and squeeze in on her vocal cords. “How could you not know they’d act this way?”

“I-I…thought they’d be better.”

“Better how?”

“That they’d see you, as I do once they got to know you.” His fingers slid down to her hand, squeezing gently. Mal almost pitied him for his naivety, but that feeling only heralded a wave of slow burning irritation.  She rubbed the bridge of her nose and took a slow breath to steady her nerves.

“I am a mage. A witch. An arcane warrior.” Her eyes fell upon his face, and all part of her yearned to do was study his olive skin and run her fingers and lips across his stubble. Not for lust or love, but to pretend the world didn’t matter and none of this mattered. But it did. It made all the difference to their future. “Do you not see that?”

“Of course I do,” he said.

“A-and you love me in spite of it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. Asan looked so confused and Mal could tell he knew she had a point.

“But here is the trouble I need you to love me , not in spite of, but in part because my magic is what makes me…me.” Mal slipped her hand from his grasp, and with it she felt herself slip further away from him. They were boats out at see and the ropes that bound them together were slipping, the knots couldn’t hold, and soon? If they were not careful they’d vanish in the fog and hold nothing but parts of a rope of old bittersweet memories. She didn’t want that. She didn’t want to lose him, but she’d be damned if she did her and him and his family a disservice by ignoring it. Perhaps selfishly, she’d rather break his heart than pretend that this didn’t bother her or did not matter. “You must love me fully or not at all in this case. You need not love magic, but you must love the magic that is in me, what I can do with it, and appreciate the joy I take in it. There are things couples can look past, but somethings must be loved to and not in spite of. If I loved you in-spite of your faith in the All-Father and could not find any respect or beauty for it, what would you say?”

“I..I do not know. I would have to think on everything.” Asan spoke softly and slowly. In his eyes wheels turned, as the thoughts and words connected to find meaning. He wasn’t a slow man by any means. She’d seen him put fools in their place with perfect words, so sharp they might as well have been a sword. But he had this habit of ignoring that which hurt to acknowledge, or bounding around the issues to avoid confronting what life demanded. If only she could be the same. But then again she would not be herself.

“and for you to understand what my magic means and to see what my magic means you must see me as a person, a woman, and a mage. You can’t section off the parts of me you like all the time. Everyone does it. We ignore our lover’s favorite books, or distaste for foods we love. But there are parts of us so important to our lives and who we are we must take a stand.”

“But what does it matter? How do you know the difference?”

“The difference is your family greeting me as your temporary lay versus your future wife.” Cold. Curt. and made them sound so unfavorable. She didn’t like to be that way usually, but it felt somewhat good.

“That’s unfair!” he said.

“But is it wrong?” To that she received only a heavy silence, pregnant with fears he didn’t want her to speak and words she feared she’d have to say.

“No.” His eyes fell to her feet. “Shit.”

 

“I say all this because for you to bring me here, to be hurt, by them…for you to be so ignorant of their prejudice-” he voice began tremble, and her throat grew tighter, hotter. She felt the threat of tears as images of the evenings arguments blurred in her head. They wished them the worst. They called her everything but a monster. Oh they thought her nice, but her magic damned her more than rudeness ever could. “How could you not think about that, or at least warn me of it, unless you were pretending not to see?”

And to that Asan had no answer. To that his mouth hung open as he tried to bring forth excuses, justifications, and rationales. Yet Asan could not lie through logic, through truths presented by someone he so dearly loved, and his spirit crumpled. Many would call her over sensitive, would say it shouldn’t matter, would say she made a mountain out of a mole hill. Asan had always acted better than that. He did not disappoint. If he did maybe it would have been easier.

“But what does your magic matter? What does that have to do with you as a person, as a woman, as my wife?”

Mal let out a dry chuckle, and folded her arms in front of her chest with  a roll of her eyes. He still did not want to get it.

“Magic informs who I am. I am a woman mage. I like being able to cast spells, I research magical artifacts, I grew up cloistered in a mage sanctuary. Magic is and always will be a part of my life and a part of my life that defines part of my core identity. If we have children they could be mages. Their mother will be a mage.”

“I know that! Don’t think I’m a fool,” Asan said.

Mal sighed, letting her arms fall to her side. She wanted to just run off to some warm quiet corner, and sleep.

“No child should be told in ways big or small that “Your mother is very lovely except…” “Your father is wonderful but only….” I will not have it be so. I’d sooner raise children on my own than have that be so. ” Now, the tears began to fall down her cheeks. A sob racked her chest and the suddenness of it shocked her. She turned away, wiping her tears so he could not see. Crying in front of people wasn’t something she did. From the corner of her eye she saw his shadow move and he stepped behind her. He let her cry as he wrapped his arms around her, and maybe he had begun to understand. Maybe he had begun to see her pain. “It was minor to you. My magic was to be ignored, but I don’t want it ignored or even loved. I want it accepted.”

“I would never tell our children that,” he said, and she believed him.

“You don’t have to say “I hate something” to make it clear. Most people never use the words love or hate, but their words and actions otherwise do enough.” She sniffled, and swallowed, trying to collect herself once more.  Another beleaguered silence weighed in, only broken by her sniffling. After what felt like an eternity of melancholy he pulled her tighter.

“I failed you because I didn’t want to believe they’d not understand. I wanted to believe they’d come to the same conclusions I did, but maybe even my own conclusions were short sighted.”

“You’ve never been with someone like me. It is to be expected, but… can it change?”

“I can’t change my family, but… I can try to talk to them and I can try to better accept you. Mal, you deserve everything in the world I can give. It isn’t much, but I’d rather be and do better than live a lesser life without you.”

A warmth slowly ran through her, causing the cage around her chest and throat to retreat. It’d take time until she felt free again, but the release brought relief enough for now. She trusted him, but now he knew her line in the sand. He had to see if he could change and she’d watch carefully.

“I’m going to talk to my father, and he shall either accept us or he shall be a lesser part of our lives…I’ll be sorry for it, but they need to know I won’t let it stand.”

“Don’t destroy your relationship with them, but…don’t expect me to let them walk over me again and discuss me like I’m five seconds from burning down the whole village.”

“Five seconds? I thought it was less than that.”

She let out a little laugh, watching the river flow on as a stray leaf landed on its surface. It bobbed along, twisting and turning with every flow and ebb.

“Oh yes, three seconds from massive destruction is more accurate. Especially on a day like today.”

It’d have to do for now when better people took a lot of work. No one changed in a day. Asan didn’t and she couldn’t expect that of others. Still she couldn’t be expected to let their lesser natures belittle her own. She was a good woman and an even better mage. They could either learn that or they could not. But for now she had Asan and for now she’d try to be happy and push through the bad for some good.

***So definitely inspired by the video game Dragon Age: Inquisition, and the relationship between Commander Cullen and a mage Inquisitor.***

Leather Bound

“Leather Bound Babes?”
He reads the title and laughs like a mad man, utterly unable to ignore the contorted figure on the cover. She just chuckles and pulls another book from the book store’s battered gunmetal grey shelves.

In that quiet back corner of the book store they were surrounded by bodice rippers and rippling bare chested cowboys. Titles with subtly obscene and obnoxious names surrounded them, and reminded them how many innuendos included the words “come” and the phrase “Doing the”. For all the joking and the laughing, they shared a mutual love of the romance section. Their gentle jabs and riffs arose from a place of pure affection, not petty scorn for a genre. Her life had been where the book had been her one constant companion in the face of scorn, and of course she read those silly titles to feel a love once deemed impossible for her to find. His love of the genre came from sneaking in his mother’s stack of books from the library or thrift store after he blew through his own. He read page after page not caring about it being “kissy kissy stuff”, as he told her.

“Sometimes I wonder if these male models have faces or anything else besides chests.”

She laughed. “What more do they need…well-” she whispered, “besides fourteen inch dicks?” They both chuckled and glanced around to make sure no wandering youngsters could hear them. “Apparently that’s all women want.”

“Is it true?” He teased.

“Oh god no, but it is a nice thought. Just…” she motioned towards the field of covers surrounding them from the front and flank. “very ultra common.”

“Well, it sort of suits the genre, no?” he said.

“The books aren’t bad. The covers often are, but that makes them more fun.” She picked a bright purple cover with a couple leaning against a ranch fence from the shelf. As she scimmed the pages she saw, from the corner of her eye, him watching her closely. “What’s on your mind?” As she spoke her eyes fell on the phrase ‘engorged rod’. For some reason that one always tripped her up and made her laugh. Something about it seemed so retro and so visceral and yet so not descriptive. She just found it…oddly hilarious.

“It’s cool that you’re cool with this,” he said.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“A lot of people would give me shit if they knew a big burly guy like me liked this stuff.” Sadly, she agreed that people would be so stupid.

“People are shitty, but you are perfect.” She leaned up on her tip toes and placed a soft kiss against his full and soft lips, which curled into a smile as they pulled away. She lived to see that smile.

Her boyfriend looked like a friendly neighborhood lumberjack with the beard and broadness to match. For the New Year, he’d begun working out regularly, pushing himself to the limit and then farther. The result was his natural broadness gained tone and got a bit broader, a bit harder, and he really looked like one of those men of the mountain. But he didn’t play any B.S games about what he should do as a man. He could fix a truck and then drive it to craft store, would be the first to suggest salad for dinner, and ,dare she say, he cried at the same points in movies she did. The night before they had watched Beaches. It was a mess and they ran out of kleenex. Actually, that was why they’d gone out and they decided on the way to get more books.

Like they didn’t have enough books.

“I’m not perfect,” he said as he turned to the covers. Dozens of chiseled bare chests stared back at him and his face knotted a little. She wrapped an arm around his own, a small comfort in the face of his own insecurities. He never wanted to be jacked, but she’d sense he’d been somewhat unhappy with his build. He didn’t lose a shit ton of weight,  and replace it with lean muscle Chris Evans Captain America like muscle. He gained muscle and it just layered under his chubby bits. He wasn’t as fat as he thought he was. He had a bit of tummy, a nice butt(which she grabbed often), and the sort of meatiness she found comforting. Why didn’t he see it that way? His eyes absorbed those cover images with half covetous jealousy, and she pulled him closer. Through their winter pea coats she felt his warmth surround her and she nuzzled against him.

“Do you know what I like about you?” she asked.

“My charming wit and lackluster personality?”

She shook her head, then beamed up at him with all the love in her heart.

“You’re very real. You aren’t a ken doll. You have meat, and substance, and a unique feeling. I like you in my arms, and on my body and…in my body.” She watched his cheeks beam firetruck red, a better sign of how effective her words were than anything he could say. “Truthfully very few of these guys do it for me, but you…you’re real to me, for me, and your flaws are perfect.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say, and so he kissed her again, sealing his mouth to hers. In seconds a deep meaningful kiss descended into raw meaningful passion. They were consumed by each other, breathing in a moment in time that would never be exactly repeated. A quiet couple solidifying one part of their love surrounded by books that often subverted the cozier notions of love like reading together, shopping together, or simply not being those perfect people.

“Ahem?” A voice startled them.

The couple instantly parted, both flustered and feeling a tad exposed as a store clerk rounded the corner. As she struggled to say the socially appropriate thing he cleared his throat then said “Sorry, this seemed the best section for romance.”

“Well,” the clerk chuckled, “Romance is the section not lust.”

“Judging by the look of it, ” she said glancing around them. “Not exactly.”

Stretching Your Legs and Getting Creative

The worst thing about being a lazy and creative person is realizing how much doing different activities fuels writing. As much as I would love to just lounge around and write all day there is an energy from going out into the world and being active that makes my writing flow easier. When I go for walks my mind wanders, and more often than not it wanders to my writing. That quiet time away from people is one factor, but I’ve realized using my body in an environment that is constantly changing or is simply not my home adds something. In previous blogs I’ve talked about this, but I want to put this in a different way. Something about moving your body and exposing your mind to new or different activities gets the juices flowing. Monotony breeds apathy, but even worse monotony breeds a lack of ideas. If you do the same unstimulating things in an unstimulating place every single day you’ll probably find yourself at a stumbling block. You’ll probably also find yourself five seconds from pulling your own hair out. As much as I’m a lazy introvert I’ve learned the value of being in the world and not just thinking about it is priceless. So often I like to pretend I can just live a life of the mind, but that quiet contemplation (which comes with a side order of repetition) eventually wears me down.  It’s hard to explain, but it leaves me with a frustrated restlessness and a profoundly unsettling emptiness. It becomes a scream I can’t get out. It disrupts my focus and muddles my creativity.

Sometimes I can work through it from home and sometimes I have to when my anxiety about outside gets high. While reading does contribute a lot to writing and creativity, while going to art museums does the same, while watching shows can do it too, and while talking does boost creative thinking going out and doing activities enhances creativity. Anyone who works out will tell you that after a while doing the same exercises the same way loses the effect on your body. It is still good for you, but the assumption that you can just keep jogging for a year and it will be as effective as it was during the first month isn’t quite accurate. It’s something a lot of people forget when trying to lose weight, and it is why a lot of people quite. Truthfully it is why a lot of people assume anyone over weight or even a bit heavier than average must never work out or be active despite the facts. You have to break your muscles, your system, and your body out of routine because then it adapts. I could lose one hundred pounds(and hopefully I will) but I won’t ever be skinny (And why would I want to?) and chances are my body will find its balance point and I’ll gain back twenty pounds in a few years. Why? Routines let your body tread the same processes and unless your shifts really get your body in gear, for a lot of bodies routine just allows it to do the same thing. The gains decrease. The brain is the exact same way. Doing the same 100 piece puzzle can only help you so much. You can only learn so much about solving any puzzle from doing the same one a thousand times.

The mind of thinking creatures needs exposure to different exciting things, and the most direct way to get that is by going out. The mind also needs the body to move, to use different neuron pathways instead of the same ones over and over. Not only is this good for creativity, but it helps fight mental decay such as dementia. Dancing is the best thing you can do for your brain, so far as I’m concerned. The brain is ultimately a muscle that requires a work out to stay healthy. The best thing about giving your brain a work out by reading something you wouldn’t otherwise read, meeting new people, going new places, going for walks, or trying out a new hobby is that it enriches what you create. It allows you to bring something new to the table and get inspired. We don’t always feel the inspiration, but the fact that we use our brains means we’ve added to the experiences we can pull from and allowed our brain to flex in a different way.

So the next time you get a brain fart that blocks creativity try switching up your routine. Try doing something a bit different and you may just be surprised!