Discombobulated Evisceration

I just feel like typing. I have this urge to hear the sound the keyboard makes as I string words to make a coherent structure. I don’t need to write about something. I just have an urge to write something. It seems like a silly exercise, purposeless and a bit self-indulging, but I wonder how much I can write – writing about nothing.

Words are fun. Sentences are even more fun. I just want them see them appear on the screen as my fingers feverishly run over the keyboard. Just that. Nothing more. I just need random words.

The first one that comes to mind is discombobulate. I don’t like it much; I think it has too many bs which discombobulate its connotation. The bob part is just to ridiculous to confound anything. It makes me wonder what would bobulation be? If I was to bobulate something to someone would that mean I’ve made something clear and understandable? I was able to bobulate the meaning of discombobulation to Mark. Nah, it’d have to mean I did something silly.

Eviscerate – now that’s a good word. When something is eviscerated you can hear a hiss of air preceding annihilation. You feel the state of deprivation from the mere feel of the letters rolling off of your tongue. First, you part your lips, ever so gently. The first sound resembles a struggled moan, deep in your throat. Then your lower teeth meet your upper lip, only to breathe out before hissing slightly. You flatten then twist your tongue around the r until it lightly touches your palate and finishes with the slight brush at the back of your teeth. And then suddenly, it is finished. Cut off. Forgotten.

There are so many wonderful words. I just can seem to find an idea around which to weave them. Shit, I seem to be developing a topic. Time to end this.

The Wind

It always starts with the wind. 

With the rustle of the leaves, the silent anger of Mother Nature.

The noise seems to die off. Things become clearer, more focused, as the silence brought on by the howling encompasses the world.

I have nothing. No characters, no plot. Just a strange sense of calm, before an inevitable storm. I can feel the thunder in the air. Even before it strikes, I can feel its rumble, I can see the sudden flash of light. Something awakens, some strange inspiration.

Deep in the dark of the night, broken by flashes of violence, lurks something new. The air is electric and I can feel life in its primordial form; wild and untamed, complex and beyond comprehension.

The need to explain is not present, because the cold caress of wind against my skin, the blinding light of the storm brings about understanding which defies explanation and nullifies all but pure existence.


A calm washes over me and a new life begins to form. Words and worlds appear, waiting to be crushed under the trivialities of reality.

Fifty Shades of Consent

If you ever read a book that falls into the category of adult or erotic fiction, I am quite sure you are fully aware that there are many, many ways a woman can say yes without actually uttering the word. Sometimes she says no, repeatedly, but still manages to have consensual sex. However, once she gets that elusive guy no other non-raped woman was able to tie down, there are no more nuances. Only white, hot light.

If it’s so important to have the element of inability to control oneself, I think that the erotic fiction trend would benefit from implementing the nature of consent as depicted in Beautiful Bastard.

Chloe Mills is unable to say no to Bennett Ryan. Even though she hates him, she is attracted to him and there’s no helping it. Note that she never says no to Bennett. Once, she even orders him to get on his knees. I’m not a fan of multiple POV, but in Beautiful Bastard Bennett’s point of view functions to level the playing field. He is no different than she is, which is something that all writers should strive towards (to please me). He is also unable to say no, even though he knows he probably should, given the fact he is Chloe’s boss.

Sure, there are a few “usual” problems, some of which definitely stem from the fact that Beautiful Bastard originated from fanfiction. The story gets a bit diluted in the last 100 pages or so, I skipped through entire chunks of book because an intercourse per chapter is in my view a bit too much. There was some strained willing suspension of disbelief as the hate they felt for each other turned into something else. I also think that the familial relations should have been additionally elaborated and put to better use. Authors try to introduce multiple characters, but really the world consists of two “real” people. Other characters have limited use: 1) to enable the protagonists to learn something through conversation; 2) to illustrate just how hot, kind, sweet and complex the protagonists are; 3) to serve as a source of conflict between protagonists.

I think most fans of 50 Shades of Grey might be interested that there are multiple similarities between Beautiful Bastard and 50 Shades, only Beautiful Bastard is not lousy. Also The Office (fanfiction on which Beautiful Bastard is based) is said to have inspired 50 Shades and its brethren. If you read adult/erotic fiction, you like 50 Shades, or would maybe like to find something like it but you prefer female characters with a backbone and male characters who are not pricks, Beautiful Bastard is the book for you.

Please, let me park my own car in front of your pink house.

Erotic fiction or adult fiction or watchamacallit, should not necessarily put me through an entire page about a single kiss or twenty pages about one coitus. The anatomy of a kiss is not something I’m interested in. I’m aware that it includes lips, tongue and sometimes teeth. I would prefer if you didn’t get all naturalistic on my ass. Or on your characters’ asses.

What you show me is more important than what you write. I find it terribly obtrusive when you pause to write: She was sexually attracted to him because __________________. Or: He wanted to have sex with her because _______________.

A good book tells you there’s a pink house and lets you paint some of the finishing touches, maybe choose the roof style, park your own car out front. (KMM, DarkFever)

Keep one thing in mind: Context is King.

fanfiction vs porn

You should practice omissiontiming and dosage which are so sparse as of recently. The Fever Series by Karen Marie Moning is the best example of how to do this (even though her Highlander Series is lacking in this respect).

Karen Marie Moning is more than an author, she’s a dealer. She has the merchandise, she is the only one who can supply you with it, and she knows just how much you need to keep you hooked, wanting more.  When Jericho and MacKayla hook up (physically) KMM made it work for another thousand pages or so.

Normally, once the protagonists get together, most contemporary fiction (YA, romance, erotic fiction and other assorted genres) lose some or all appeal. This is because your primary focus is on the (sexual) relationship, with blatant disregard of plot and character development, and your inability (or unwillingness) to omit, time and dose. And then you are forced to put your characters into ridiculous situations, create unnecessary conflict in a poor attempt to keep the interest of the reader.

Even after reading a whole big bunch of Gulity Pleasure/Cheap Thrill (GPCT) books, Jerricho Barrons remains my one and only GPCT bookcrush. He’s not there all the time. Sometimes he shows up once in a few hundred pages, but when Jericho shows up…Well, read between the lines.

Barrons has something the rest of us don’t have. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it all the time, especially when we’re standing close. Beneath the expensive clothes, unplaceable accent, and cultured veneer, there’s something that never crawled all the way out of the swamp. It didn’t want to. It likes it there. (KMM, BloodFever).

The Unbearable Lightness of Writing

Love doesn’t just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.

Ursula Le Guin, The Lathe of Heaven

Ursula Le Guin seems not to suffer from the confines of language. The most peculiar scenes and sensations are transformed into words with such lightness that I come to doubt the Whorf-Sapir hypothesis in which I firmly and adamantly believe. Her style, infused with love of humanity, serves as a deterrent of her message. It takes a while to see past her writing and notice the warning which her words tenaciously weave. Perfect fluency, the logic behind chaos serve to catch you unaware. Some pages into the book you are suddenly struck, amid the beauty of her writing, with a sense of dread, of slow, yet inevitable, civilizational decay.

The contradiction which is present in her books is not awkward – it makes perfect sense. It makes me believe that she has answers which a lot of us are looking for because her books manage to reconcile the beauty and grandeur of the human race with our delectable penchant for wanton self-destruction. At the same time I am proud to be human and appalled by the historical failure of the race. She captures the dichotomy of our fates as individuals and as parts of the whole, which seems to lack cohesion and collective intelligence.

The combination of subtle alliteration bordering on verse, small quips and lapses of humour only enhance the sense of pending doom. Constructed worlds, distant but probable, serve as an eerie setting to showcase the failure of an entire race. A beautiful, complex failure. An amalgamation of magnificent and singular minds destined for self-destruction.

Three books later, Le Guin still makes me feel both happy and sad about being a human. And I am at peace with that fact. Even after I saw the dark future that awaits the human race, I do not feel bad because I also saw the beauty of the individual.

It is our suffering that brings us together. It is not love. Love does not obey the mind, and turns to hate when forced. The bond that binds us is beyond choice. We are brothers. We are brothers in what we share. In pain, which each of us must suffer alone, in hunger, in poverty, in hope, we know our brotherhood. We know it, because we have had to learn it. We know that there is no help for us but from one another, that no hand will save us if we do not reach out our hand. And the hand that you reach out is empty, as mine is. You have nothing. You possess nothing. You own nothing. You are free. All you have is what you are, and what you give.

Ursula Le Guin, The Dispossessed

lathe_uk1984Ursula K. Le Guin_1974_The Dispossessed lhod3

I have read three books by Ursula Le Guin. All three will forever be a part of who I am, of what I feel it means to be human. I feel honoured to have had the privilege of reading these books and allowing them to influence me, both intellectually and emotionally. I’ve read The Left Hand of Darkness, The Dispossessed, and The Lathe of Heaven. You can read my review of the Dispossessed and my take on the characterization in The Lathe of Heaven on Goodreads.

The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula Le Guin is a part of the mighty MiniBookClub:

Untitled Writing

A/N: I know writing a personally tagged post after not posting for so long is shitty. It’s a rant, really. Sorry, I’m having some creative issues.

Writing is an incremental process.“ I read that somewhere. You don’t just sit down and type four hundred Word pages because you have this deep, undeniable desire to pour something into words, to bring new people, monsters and other creatures to life.

Your fingers, your characters and your world. There’s nothing more empowering than that, really. Molding people out of your grey matter, and trying to lead them around. Trying to shape destinies like you’re a god. And then, them breaking loose, becoming alive. Getting a will of their own. Demanding things of you. Reminding you they haven’t eaten in 100 pages. Telling you they really don’t like that asshole you’ve intended for them. „Please, could you choose someone else? He’s just not my type.

Sometimes it’s like they’re praying to you. Like they’re trying to make you do something for them, something other than what you have intended. It’s not easy to say no. But unless you say no you cannot have any control over what happens. The more times you say „yes“ to your character, the more likely it is that you’ll end up swearing at yourself for being a weakling and giving up because there is no chance you can go back.

What though the radiance

which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

Of splendour in the grass,

of glory in the flower,

We will grieve not, rather find

Strength in what remains behind;

In the primal sympathy

Which having been must ever be;

In the soothing thoughts that spring

Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

A/N: Told you it was a rant. Poem by Wordsworth. I’m in a poetic mood. Which is also a bitch. As are my characters. I could have written about Pacific Rim (which was utter crap), or RED 2 (which was fun), or maybe the Iron Maiden concert (which once again was a religious experience). But I just, gah.