I wrote this last night on my bus ride home.
Five minutes. She gave me five minutes & I froze. There was too much to say & my words were dammed by my life. Those wasted moments are talismans carried attached to my heart. They stain my every interaction and at moments, a few moments make me want to die.
Another little thing out of my journal.
Night in the city is a broken nose. The light is fractured and bleeding, exhausted and leaves me comfortably bruised.
I am apparently still very obsessive about jotting sentences sometimes.
It may seem that last night I was all full of doom which I wasn’t. I was actually writing that as I was thinking about how disconnected from any local lit scene there is here in Seattle.
I have over the years tried belonging to writing groups of one stripe or another. I was asked politely not to return to one years ago because the content of my writing made the other women in the group uncomfortable. At the time I was absolutely wrecked.
I think what hurt me the most wasn’t that they didn’t like my writing but, that there was not even a nod to the idea that not every Black woman writes like Alice Walker or Toni Morrison. I realized that they expected Sassy Black Lady and they got Really pissed off young queer writing really violent smut.
I thought of that because I got a note from someone I highly respect and who has known me for a very long time commenting on how my writing has changed. She said “you don’t even try nice anymore.” That is a huge compliment because I don’t.
As I get some more excellent feedback from people I’m confirming in my own mind at least that yes, I go to the Bad Lands in my head a lot. A lot of things I write and like to read are not nice and make people uncomfortable and it’s okay.
When I was younger I had a lot of angst about this. I wanted my writing to be liked so much I thought I had to make it nice. I had to write pretty.
I may not have yet mastered my own nerves. My grammar still kinda sucks sometimes. But I got over that and that’s something.
So back to work. Under the read more tag a tid bit from the man on man kinky action I’m working on right now. As inspired by the Slave posts on Dennis Cooper’s blog.
My voice is so calm and smooth that he seems taken aback. I’m more serious than he’s used to I can tell. I’m not in the mood for flirtation and if he stalls I may have to allow him to admire me, perhaps earn himself a spanking then he’ll have to go home. I’m in too violent a mood for idle flirty talk.
His gaze flickers away and I step close, leaning against him so he feels the hard length of my cock against his thigh. I pull his hand from his pants and look back into his eyes. I feel him give in, I feel the delicate trembling that starts in his belly and moves through him like water.