The title isn’t original. It’s the name of an anthology I’ve read several times and love.
Also note here I’m going to use my Amazon affiliate links because I’m saving for something important and every penny counts.
I was given a copy of this by a friend of mine because I love verses that hurt. I love writing that hurts me.
In my sex life I’m not the biggest masochist. A pain slut I am not. I’m only a pain slut, a greedy greedy little masochist waving my non-literal ass for a beating when it comes to reading.
I’m thinking about that book because I just started writing a story that I did not intend to hurt but, it hurts. I had the idea last night as I was working on my latest crochet project. The project is curvy and variegated, I have to pay attention to my stitch count and when turning needs to happen.
Then the voice was there. Very often when I write narrative the voice in my head is what spurs the story. This voice is a tired woman with a flat affect. She’s half dead and doesn’t know how to come back. She’s sad and full of hate.
I like her.
I hope I can do her justice.
I had other things to talk about today but, I don’t want to. I want to finish writing this story and sit here excited about my essay that is most likely going live at JunkLit tomorrow. If I wasn’t at work I would probably be running around in circles squealing and waving my arms like a 3 year old on meth.
Under the fold a tidbit from the story in progress.
My gay boyfriend Jones and his husband Andre were the only people I trusted enough to pack my things with love and without judgment. They labeled my porn and sex toys, they stored my winter coat and had my duvet dry cleaned and packed properly. They didn’t treat my things as if I were dead already as I knew anyone else would.