(no subject)

Here is an example of why it is dangerous to be friends with writers.

My story in Best Bisexual Erotica 2 is definitely fiction, but I drew heavily and obviously on a bachelor party I attended while at Clarion. To the point where in the first draft, there was a character who retained the name of the person she was based on; I only very minimally changed it for the last draft.

I remember at one point, the person whose name I almost didn't change said, "you must all swear never to tell anyone about this!" Another of my classmates laughed and gave the appropriate reply: "Are you kidding? We're writers!"

Fortunately, when they found out, my Clarion-mates took it in stride. I believe they had a reading in my honor at a Christmas party a few years back, in fact. I wonder if they each took their own parts.

Of course, while we're on the subject, my story in Best Bisexual Erotica 1 isn't fiction at all, and I changed no names nor identifying features.

Usually, though, I digest the bits I borrow from life, friends, and lovers a little bit more than this.

(no subject)

Ever wonder if sometimes we make ourselves miserable simply because it's an emotion we're familiar with and know how to handle?

The Death of Mae West

for daphne

mae died drinking
or she should have died drinking
or at least in a bar fight, stabbed in the eye
by a jealous lover or a
vengeful wife

or she should have died fucking
not a sex crime corpse
but laughing
as her thighs clenched
and her heart burst

she should have died young and dissolute
but she was 87 before her wicked wicked ways
caught up with her

at least she died in bed.

(no subject)

I want all of my friends to light a green candle for me, or do whatever other rituals convey prosperity and good job karma on people. Or just cross your fingers. White light thoughts also accepted. Whatever works.



(note to the paranoid: My current situation is not in peril. I'm just too superstitious to elaborate right now.)