Monday, 30 December 2013

Just let the writer write

Okay, so you all know you cannot at any time have sex without a condom. There are diseases you can get and there’s the whole pregnancy thing and some would say it’s not ‘nice’ dealing with sticky stuff. What? You've heard all that before?  It’s not what you believe?  Oh, you don’t care for the dictates of others? You’re saying you can do as your conscience sees fit and you are aware of consequences? Wow…well, okay, if you have a mind of your own that’s your choice. 

Here’s the thing, stories are just that – made up fiction. An author has an idea. They write it. It may or may not be based on their beliefs. A reader buys a story and reads it. The reader has a mind of their own. They read and evaluate using their belief system. It’s a no-brainer really. When someone reads a story with vampire sex – chances are pretty slim of sleeping with a vampire  - but if the question came up then the reader would make a decision based on her beliefs and not on what was written in a story. Sex with a condom or without a condom – same thing. A reader isn’t instantly going to change her sexual preferences based on whether a writer has a to semen or not to semen ethic. And writers? Hell, they’re not responsible if you get pregnant by a gargoyle just because the heroine in their story did. Gargoyle sex is a personal preference and not a decree by an author.

No writer is ever going to say in a story have sex or don’t have sex or use a condom or don’t use a condom or don’t ride a cowboy or be sucked by a vampire during sex or have gay sex, lesbian sex, man on the moon sex, clown sex…ok, I am going to draw the line at clown sex because clowns are creepy. It's no ones business what anyone else does - except for the clown thing of course. That'll send you straight to hell.
The thing is everyone is accountable for their own lives. No book or story or any piece of romantic or erotic fiction is going to make you do something you know in your heart you’re morally against. I wouldn’t expect that of anyone. I do, however, think some publishers are getting sillier by the second when they assume readers cannot make judgments for themselves and that as publishers, what makes their teeth grit, is not necessarily a moral indicator of what’s good and bad in the world. Sure, sure, they know what the trends are. They don’t want to buck the system. Buck it I say. Let the individual decide for themselves. Trends only come about when someone challenges the norm. 

Years ago, when I was writing for Ellora’s Cave, and every hero had to have condoms on or else you wouldn’t get published -  it’s probably still the same at EC -  I had a reader email me saying she liked one of my stories but she was – SICK OF CONDOMS!!!! I CAN MAKE MY OWN DECISIONS ABOUT SEX!  STOP THE CONDOMS! Yes, it was all in capitals. I’ve never forgotten it. I have it somewhere in my files. And I thought then as I do now, yep the woman is right. Readers are individuals who will read sex on their terms and make decisions based on their beliefs as to whether there is latex snapped on or not. 

Just let the writer write.           

Sunday, 29 December 2013

Pretty much a plethora...

I have done it. Sex. I have written a plethora. I’m not sure you can have a plethora of sex. It may be a bunch or a multitude or a butt load…okay, maybe not a butt load but a lot – possibly heaps. So, sex written, done, dusted, in, out, over, under, knit, purl – was it good for you? 

I need coffee...

Saturday, 28 December 2013

Left foot yellow...

So, I had four stories half written then stuff happened and I had to put writing on hold. It was a no brainer. Life is more important than writing. Anyway, I finished one story and I’m pretty pleased that I have almost finished another – but for the sex. My standard way to write is to write all around the sex, sort of leaving a marker, highlighted in yellow, where sex is to go, with notes like – left foot on yellow circle, butt in air, in & out, up & down, dick stage left, boobs stage right, under, over, red rover, red rover, come play in the clover, ooh, baby, baby, oww, ooh, yeah, noooo, okay then, ahhhh….whoa…down girl, up boy, was it good for you…yes, no, yes, yes, yes….ahhhh…

Sex, it rarely makes sense. Highlight it in yellow and see where it goes.          

Friday, 27 December 2013

Ah, Frank...

Thursday, 26 December 2013

No Skinnie Minnies here...

HILDA Evelyn Kottman is a self-styled bad arse.
She's been inked, she gambles, collects boyfriends and loves whiskey.

Oh, and she's 103 years old.

Go Hilda. To thine own self be true.

Wednesday, 25 December 2013

It all comes down to cake....

It occurred to me today, as I was writing, life all comes down to cake. How so? We like cake. We eat cake. We buy or make cakes for birthdays to make other people feel happy about getting cake. Cake gives pleasure. It unites people at weddings. It inspires people to be creative and something they can look at with pride. People win awards for cakes. Cake can be thrown at people in anger without anyone getting hurt. Cake is guilt free when you’re upset because negative emotions block out fat. Happy emotions also block out fat. Cake pleases and teases. It is gender neutral and colour blind. Cake is the united nations of the food world.   

I wrote cake into a story. How? It’s a long story. Why? See the answer to the first question. Maybe we can talk about it over cake.  

Tuesday, 24 December 2013

Give me peace on earth....

What a lovely thought. 

Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays. Peace on Earth.

Monday, 23 December 2013

When I was a kid...

....I had real trouble believing in the whole Santa Claus thing. I went along with it because it seemed important to my parents and you know, at 5 years old, you can fake a lot. But, I didn't see the whole visiting every kid on the planet thing in one night as doable. Seriously? Is Santa supposed to fib?  

Now, I'm more inclined to be on board with the idea of Santa Claus. Fibs are okay and I want to see if he really does differentiate between naughty and nice. 


Sunday, 22 December 2013

Seize the Day....

It’s been a hell of a year. It’s reinforced something I always knew and believed in – seize the day. I look at something and more and more I think ‘fuck it - I’m going to do it, be it, take it, live it.’ My theory is I don’t want to look back on my life and think to myself I should have done that one or dozen things that would have made me that little bit happier despite the cost be it financial or emotional.   

Seize it. Own it. Be it. And to hell with anyone who tries to get in your way.  

Saturday, 21 December 2013

Where do you want to go?

Alice came to a fork in the road. 'Which road do I take?' she asked.
'Where do you want to go?' responded the Cheshire Cat.
'I don't know,' Alice answered.
'Then,' said the Cat, 'it doesn't matter.” 

~Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Thursday, 19 December 2013

The Kings of Scotland...

So, I’ve accepted this new job that will be a challenge. The fact that it will be a new challenge doesn’t bother me. I view challenges as a renewal of spirit and I'm one of those weird, confident people who like radical change. I did, however, have one moment when I was reading through the info that was sent to me to sign and I thought ‘Crap, I hope I’m smart enough to pass this medical study’. It was then that I could hear my mother’s voice saying to me, as she did when we were kids, ‘You are descended from the Kings of Scotland. Of course you can do it.’ It was Mum’s rallying cry. I remember Mum always saying this. It instantly made me straighten my spine and forge on ahead regardless of whether I succeeded or fell on my arse.

So, I gird my loins and go forth, with royal Scottish blood in my veins, and I will pass because I am descended from the Kings of Scotland and nothing can stop me.  

Wednesday, 18 December 2013

The stodger effect...

Okay, I believe I have worked out why Dulcie, the chook, goes into terribly dark, brooding, evil eyed, sinister moods where she refuses to move and looks at me like I’m scum. It’s the stodger effect.

Ipso facto – three eggs. The small white one is Ursula the chook’s egg. She’s what I call beauty challenged and scared of absolutely everything – but she tries hard and one can’t fault the ratbag chortler that.  The middle one is from Laverne, aka Houdini I-can-escape-anything-so-let-me-run-free-or-else the chook. The last one? The big stodger of an egg that barely fits into the palm of my hand?  That’s Dulcie’s. Yeah, I reckon one small bodied chook may just be a tad cranky after laying such a ginormous egg. She can have her dark moments. I get it.

Tuesday, 17 December 2013

Ok, if I multiply X by 8 hours, 5 days week and take out tax...

Today I started the next temp job which goes for 4 weeks and fills in a gap until I start my new permanent job. Temps – we’re hookers – we’ll do or say or feign fake emotion as long as you pay us…oh baby, oh baby, sure, I’ll type, file, answer the phone, look diligent…just give me the money, honey.  So, this temp job – I walked in. There are three women in the office. They all hate each other. I got that straight away. Frosty air and deadly silent, evil stares tend to be a dead giveaway. No surprise whatsoever because rarely, in my experience, do women like other women in offices. “Whatever,” I said to myself. “Kill each other. Who cares?  Keep me out of it. I’m here to get paid.” It’s the temp’s mantra.  As I sat down and started work – which, there was none - again, not a surprise because I often find with temp jobs the inmates wail about too much work and demand help and when help arrives the help looks around and thinks "there is no work" followed closely by "I hope they have decent internet" and the ever popular "Now, what do I have to print and how much paper do they have?”

So, there was stuff all to do at work. That was okay because I worked out how much pay I should get paid doing stuff all followed by making plans to spend as little time as possible in Brisbane when I’m in that city  during the 7 weeks of training I have to do there and then I came up with a fantastic idea for the backyard patio that required my sketching lots of drawings.

Temping. Use your brain. You’re not there to work for god sake. 

Monday, 16 December 2013


The truth is writing sex is hard and no writer, despite what they may want and tell you to believe in their 'about me' section, looks like the woman in this picture. Sex is hard to write and writers are generally people in sweat pants or shorts and t-shirts or pyjamas, their hair screwed up on their head, a pen behind their ear, wearing smudged specs as they try and think hot, dirty thoughts to type frantically before they forget what the hell he did to her with what, all at the same time as drinking too much coffee or coke or chocolate milk while kicking, with their unpolished toenail, the discarded sandwich, on a chipped plate, on the floor, where they put it because the desk is for scraps of paper with half scribbled notes on it all about sex. Just so you know when you read sex again…     

Sunday, 15 December 2013

Must stop it...

I keep telling myself 'Don’t do it. It’s madness. Why are you doing this? You can break this cycle.' And yet – I found myself this arvo in front of the television, sewing something – yes, remember when people knew how to sew – and I was yelling at an old episode of The Bachelor when Sean gave that trashy bag Tierra a rose and it made her safe from elimination. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I yelled at him. There was no response because it’s TV. Duh. I don’t know why I get hooked on the Bachelor. It’s reality TV for god sake. Its simulated people in simulated situations that are designed to be mindless viewing for the masses…oh...right. That’s why.


Saturday, 14 December 2013

I wrote stuff today...

I haven't written in ages due to various things, situations and life stuff. But, I picked up one of 4 half finished stories and banged out a bunch of words. I'm happy with that. 

Life - don't it just get in the way of stuff?  

Friday, 13 December 2013

Me, the Hulk and Susie...

Apparently I have really strong arms. My boxing instructor told me that not many people, let alone women, can keep solidly boxing for 30 minutes without stopping or dying. Many a time I want to stop or fall on the floor in a sweaty heap and scream ‘Uncle!’ Or ‘Aunt!’ Or ‘Leave me the hell alone!’ But I don’t. I’m not sure why. Possibly it’s sheer stamina or bloody minded determination or maybe its like one of those nonsensical tests at school where Billy is travelling on one train wearing a red sweater, Freddie is travelling in a car eating an ice-cream and Harry is riding a bike wearing a baseball cap – which one will get to point A to B fastest and claim the prize? None of them because Susie thought ‘Stuff the lot of them, I’ll switch the signs around so they all go in different directions and get lost and I’ll win.’

Susie probably had strong arms too.         

Thursday, 12 December 2013

Sweat it...

So, after my 5km walk – I’m not running again yet, I’m trying to be a good, obedient girl due to my pulled muscle – it completely sucks of course – and after an hour of RPM (Raw power in motion on spin bikes aka really painful muscles on bikes with tweeny weeny seats), I did aqua aerobics. I’m a great believer in trying everything at least once. Would I do the mermaidian aqua thing again? Er, no. It’s a little tame for me. I’m one of those people who likes to sweat profusely while doing things hard and fast and painfully because in my mind all that torture means serious kill-you-or-cure-you-fitness. I like to limp away exhausted. I want my muscles with a side order of oh-my-god-why-did-I-do-that-pain and knowing that the litres of toxins sweated out means I can go put more evil, naughty, lovely things in and sweat them all out again. 

Nobody ever drowned in his own sweat ~Ann Landers 

Both tears and sweat are salty, but they render a different result. Tears will get you sympathy; sweat will get you change ~Jesse Jackson 

Wednesday, 11 December 2013

Surrender? Don't be bloody silly, we're Australian…

The other day I received conduct records regarding my father’s service in the Australian Army. He was a career soldier – starting as a Nasho (National Serviceman) and then going through peace keeping in Korea, the Malay Emergency and later in Vietnam working with US Special Forces and then with the Army on home soil. He would always tell of the time a US Colonel came up to him after a particularly hard battle in Vietnam and declared that my father would be awarded a US medal for his part in it. My father told the Colonel to piss off. Like most Aussie soldiers they didn’t do the job for medals and they sure as hell didn’t care for clean skinned, never-out-in-the-field officers pouncing about. Nah, he didn’t get the medal and he never regretted his words

Anyway, I requested the records from the Army due to accusations I consider slander. As expected the records didn’t indicate much at all in his 30 year history. In fact it was only between 1954 and 1957 that any charges were filed against him. Not so bad for a kid from the slums who had been smacked around by the local cops who told him to go into the Army or else. He went – naturally. What were the charges for? Things like not wearing the right hat or uniform or turning up late. I think of the man he would have been back then – 21 years of age, fresh from the slums of Sydney, a fighter, a survivor and someone who would turn out better than anyone expected.

As for the slander? Greed, jealousy based and un-Australian and I will not countenance it.       

Surrender? Don't be bloody silly, we're Australian…

I cannot surrender. I am in command of Australians who would cut my throat if I did.

Not lip service, nor obsequious homage to superiors, nor servile observance of forms and customs...the Australian army is proof that individualism is the best and not the worst foundation upon which to build up collective discipline - General Monash.

**Photo is my father outside the Nee Soon Barracks in Singapore 1958 (serving with 3RAR) 

Tuesday, 10 December 2013

Not Ms 98% of the population…

So, I attended part two of this psyche test for this job I applied for. It’s been a bloody long process. Part 2 was about going over some questions I answered in part one. Two of my responses to questions confused them. There were questions (330 in all) that you have to answer false, partly truly, slightly true, true. You know the drill. Those two questions were -  

Question one – Do you often get unwanted advertising (junk mail).

I answered false. This confused them because the standard response was true.  Why did I not fall in line with 98% of the population? Because, I told them, I have a ‘no junk mail’ sticker on my mailbox. Ipso facto I get no junk mail. This surprised them as they had not thought of this variable. I would have thought they had and I also wondered why a question on junk mail is so important anyway. It doesn’t tell you anything on life or people.  Good to know I’m not like 98% of people.

Questions two – “You answered that it is slightly true that you will do what people require of you.” Apparently this is a true or false answer only. I pointed out to them in personal life I do whatever I want and rarely do what anyone tells me to unless it makes sense. I added, that in a work situation following a justifiable protocol I will follow it. Now, this surprised them as you are either one or the other. Again, I explained I was not part of any 98% and probably will never be.

After writing copious notes on what I said and I was ‘not to worry about them’- I wasn’t - they asked what questions did I find odd in the 330 question test. I said the one about jumping out of an airplane while doing archery. How so they asked? How so I wondered?  I pointed out as far as I know it’s not the norm to shoot an arrow while free falling. I added this question could only make you look odd if you answered yes because then please explain how often you do the plane and arrow thing or is it only while on drugs? And, if you had never done it then does this mean you’re not prepared to face challenges and danger in life indicating you’re a wuss.  Many, many notes were written down then.

In the end, I explained, quoting Popeye, ‘I am who I am’ and essentially I’m a take or leave me proposition.  I am feel I left the psychologist a little wiser, possibly needing to have an aspirin and lie down. I do what I can in life…

Monday, 9 December 2013

Sweaty thighs...

So, I saw this picture of some really nifty socks. I like socks, particularly ankle socks. I wear them with my Mary Janes. No, I’ll probably never grow up but that’s okay with me. Anyway, I liked the socks and clicked on a tab that said ‘see other suggestions’. I will. I did. A bunch of other socks came up and then what the? How did we go from ankle socks to looking like a hooker in latex tights? They would look terrible with Mary Janes. And who the hell wears latex anyway? And in the tropics? Massive thigh sweat. In the cold? I could see that latex adhering to frozen thighs and having to be blow torched off. Uses for rubberized leggings? Other than maybe if your tyre blows and you have no spare and you rip a legging off and wrap it around the tyre. Other than that, I can’t see them as useful at all. Is this some weird arsed male fantasy ‘cause I seriously cannot see any sane woman wearing them. It just ruined my sock watching…    

Sunday, 8 December 2013

Despite the odds, we still believe...

I was doing my normal Sunday morning swim, at the lagoon on the Cairns Esplanade, when this Chinese bridal couple and their photographer came along. It was early morning and they would have been getting some photos done before the general wedding chaos of the day began. I tread water, not wanting to photo bomb the all important pictures, and watched the couple. He was in this silver grey 19th century type frock coat and he had such a proud, happy look on his face when he looked at his bride. She, in turn, looked quite lovely yet nervous in a strapless gown with a long train that she and the photographer worried a great deal about. When the bride and groom looked at each other with such blatant love in their eyes I thought to myself, yeah, this is what people want to believe in and why despite every setback, failure and facing the odds and still daring to try, that as humans we still believe in love and soul mates and not giving up on finding ‘the one.’ That's nice.

"He’s not perfect. You aren’t either, and the two of you will never be perfect. But if he can make you laugh at least once, causes you to think twice, and if he admits to being human and making mistakes, hold onto him and give him the most you can. He isn’t going to quote poetry, he’s not thinking about you every moment, but he will give you a part of him that he knows you could break. Don’t hurt him, don’t change him, and don’t expect for more than he can give. Don’t analyze. Smile when he makes you happy, yell when he makes you mad, and miss him when he’s not there. Love hard when there is love to be had. Because perfect guys don’t exist, but there’s always one guy that is perfect for you" ~ Bob Marley

Friday, 6 December 2013

Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods.....

So, at work, a mechanic type person got a metal splinter in his hand. It was all very dramatic and apparently intensely painful and I expect if Steven Spielberg had been there he would have been caught up in the drama and optioned the film rights – that is if the splinter was an actual splinter and not a teeny weeny speck that I could barely see. The bloke in question was apparently in ‘massive pain’ – uh huh – and had to get it out or he was in danger of dying – so he told me. The thing is he couldn’t shove the sharp, splinter get-er-out-er-rer probe into his own hand because he knew it would hurt ‘terribly.’ I did what any woman worth her salt would have done when faced by a whiner, I took the sharp probe, grabbed his hand, plunged it in and flipped the life threatening splinter from his flesh in a matter of seconds. He howled. He pointed to the speck of blood this major surgery involved. Sigh…where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?  

Thursday, 5 December 2013

Gap money...

So, one temp job finishes tomorrow. I got rung up by another company to come in for a look see for another temp job – you know they want to have a quick look at you to see you don’t have two heads. I went, sat, chatted and had only one horrible moment as to which resume they were reading from and what constructive and descriptive info I had given. I have my real resume that lists every job I have ever done and it makes me on one hand, look flighty and on the other ‘very experienced.’ Resume two is a combo of experience and serious commitment. Resume version 3 is the dedicated individual committed to working hard - ydah, ydah, ydah. It depends on the company who I send what to or who has referred me on to them and which version they are holding onto and what I will say. Thank god I’m a great tap dancer when it comes to truth and fiction and can cover my arse at any given moment.

This new temp job is for a short contract. That suits me because essentially I’m going to use them to get paid money and then leave them, of course very upset that I have to - look sincere as I say it – because I'm 95% certain I have this other full time job done and dusted and I need what I call gap money in the interim.

Yes, the machinations of my mind often exhaust me…

Wednesday, 4 December 2013

Pistols at dawn....

So, at the temp job, which finishes Friday and I’m not at all upset as it’s the most anal place on the planet with the laziest people AKA public service, I have to input these invoices into the computer. Yeah. It’s a no brainer and boring as all get out but being a temp means you’re like a hooker. Pay me for that and I’ll do it. I may not do it well or find it interesting but I’m just doing it for the dosh so don't expect any great emotion, buddy.

Anyway, with the invoices you sit and type in all this crap into the boxes on screen that has to have crap typed into them. I had done a bazillion of these, and was going brain dead, when it occurred to me that in a batch that I had done and just come back from the accounts payable people – I have never met an interesting accounts payable person - they’re a dreary lot whose worlds are ruled by anal rules and the words ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’. I counter this with ‘why not?’ which drives them insane, which I admit I enjoy doing. Where was I? Oh yeah,  so in the batch that came back – picture me typing them in, sending to accounts payable. They type something on the invoices and send then back to me where I’m supposed to receipt them and send them back to them where they probably stamp them 7 times and then file them and someone in 30 years will say ‘what a load of bollocks’ and chuck them out. Ah, public service. So I pointed out in an email a double up of a certain invoice - my error, which they should have picked up - and I said it needed to be cancelled. This caused, let’s call him – Miron – from accounts to have a conniption fit.

We can’t just cancel things
What? You don’t know how?
(insert horrified gasp) That’s not the point. We don’t ever do it.
Why not? It’s a mistake. I made it.
You shouldn’t have made it
Well, you didn’t pick it up in the back and forward crap between us you lot do.
(sucking in of air through clenched teeth). Were you paying attention to what you were doing?
(Me contemplating personal emails, phone calls and personal internet done during work time)  Sure. Absolutely. More than likely. Probably. The thing is Miron it needs to be fixed.
This is so troublesome.
(Troublesome?) Yes, I’m sure it is. If you want to meet me for pistols at dawn and we duel it out then fine but accounts wise you should cancel a double up as you will pay twice and that seems more troublesome.
Oh dear, oh dear…
Miron, get a grip man. Tell me how to cancel it. My ID will be against it and everyone can blame me and I won’t give a crap.
Oh dear, oh dear…
Yeah. Whatever. How do I cancel it?
I’m not sure.
(I knew it) Okay, well there’s this big red X up in the toolbar. I’m gonna click on that. Either it will cancel it or we all die.
Too late. Oh, lookie, the invoice is gone. Do you now get a notification that it's deleted and do you send it to me and I send it back to you with a stamp on it? Then you stamp it and.... 
When do you leave?
Come on Miron, you’ll miss me. You know you will.

Tuesday, 3 December 2013

So, I had to have sex to save the world…

So, I’ve been reading this series about a female vampire hunter who hangs out with vampires, werewolves, wereleopeards, wererats – you name it and there’s a human who turns into some sort of animal at the full moon – and she knows them all. Anyway, the heroine, who started off all business with guns blazing and with I’ll-kill-you-if-you-look-at-me-sideways-attitude and was pretty much celibate in book one, but now? She is pretty much screwing everyone. Her reasoning, and I believe it’s one we can all use, is that she had to have sex with someone because she is basically trying to save the world and make sure all her friends, who are pretty much male, are safe due to her ability to have sex ad hoc. Yeah, I do understand that. I’m not a slut, I’m a peacemaker, a saviour, a visionary and someone who should be considered for the Nobel Peace Prize purely due to having my body be made available to all and sundry to thrust out their demons or whatever. Yes. It makes perfect sense.

Yeah, the series is starting to annoy me. This woman started out as a tough, no nonsense heroine who was credible in my eyes. I’m not saying don’t have sex to save the world because we’ve all, I’m sure, done that at some time. Sex. Orgasm. World saved. It’s a no-brainer. All I’m saying is get off her and let her go back to being tough and no nonsense. The confused, ‘oh my god why did I have sex with X, Y and Z not to mention L, M, N and O?’ is wearing thin with the heroine.  Yeah, the author is successful and good luck to her. I’m just disappointed she corrupted the character due to her sex.  It makes the character look weak. Give her back her metaphorical balls. 

Monday, 2 December 2013

Ready to amaze...

So, at boxing lessons today, I had to walk back and forward with a 7 kilo (15 pound) medicine ball over my head. At each place I stopped I had to lift this freaking heavy arsed thing up and down over my head ten times. I then did that 14 times back and forward. It was hard. I panted. I sweated. I swore under my breath. But I did it. Why? Because I wanted to prove I could. I showed my bicep to a friend at lunch. He nodded his head and indicated how amazed he was at it. He wasn't. He was just being nice to his demented friend. But, I know that bicep is there just waiting to bulge out and dazzle people with it's magnificence. I hope I’m awake when it does.