FACT: It’s a lot easier to get things done if you don’t spend most of your day in a state of low level panic and worry based on the fact that you’re not getting anything done.
I did it! I found my new name. It is a lot like the old one, which I think will be good for continuity. It also drops the Norse God theme, which I was never fully comfortable with in the first place.
This name is neat I think. It rolls off the tongue, climbs up into the rafters and peers down at you. Then it flicks the light switches on and off for a few minutes for its own amusement and eventually curls up and goes to sleep in a sun beam. It is unique without having to be spelled yoonikke and it challenges heteronormative expectations, of, uh, things.
I made this cover, so we can all appreciate what it might look like on a cover. Why, just like a real name!
Hello everyone. I have an announcement to make. Well, sort of an announcement, sort of a random fumbling about.
The time has come for me to chrysalis and butterfly. Or something. Which is to say, I am ditching my pen name.
I have several reasons for this. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time, being one of them. It’s something I feel I should do now, for reasons I won’t elaborate on publicly, but will make murky reference to (<- like that.) And it’s something a third thing because things like this come in threes – or fours. To strive, to seek, to find a restaurant where they don’t sit you in the naughty corner under the kitchen window. (Seriously – why even put a table there? It’s like you wanted a place to punish people.)
This already makes limited sense.
I know this could be sort of weird. I always have trouble catching up when people change things like their hairstyles or their noses, let alone their names.
Also I’m having trouble coming up with a new pen name. It’s difficult. Some of the ones I’ve tried up so far bring up mugshots of burly, angry looking men, which isn’t quite the vibe I’m going for. Also, as I think more on it, things get more ridiculous. So far on my list of possible pen names:
I’ll keep you updated as events warrant. Or maybe even as they don’t.
It seems weird to write ‘gay marriage’, because the whole point of the marriage equality legislation passed in New Zealand last night is that there is no difference between a man and a woman who get married or two women who get married or two men who get married. So I’m going with yay marriage! Marriage for all who want it! And yay the property rights, visitation privileges, tax advantages and everything else that comes with it. Not a moment too soon either.
Fact: There is literally no situation or event that cannot be made instantly 100 times more bad-ass by playing this song.
Here it is making Uday Hussein’s mad rampage through life seem somewhat excellent. (Spoiler: It was not excellent.)
Here it is improving the ocean. And selling man smells.
Here is it with longer eyelashes, ladies riding pretend horses (that’s what they call an omlette du omage) and Marilyn Manson.
Here is Karen Souza showing how awesomeness can be adapted to fit an easy listening aesthetic.. Or any time someone’s bought a double bass with them. And, just to demonstrate that she doesn’t actually suck the life out of everything she sings with the intensity of a cyclonic vacuum cleaner – every step you take.
This post is very ranty and sort of angry, so if you’re looking for good vibrations, I suggest not reading this. If, on the other hand, angry and ranty is what you like with your cup of cocoa, read on.
Sometimes you can’t help things being the thing that they are. In fact, things are at their best when they are what they are. Even if people wished they were something else. Which is another way of me saying that I’m not re-writing Lesbia after all*. Because doing that makes it something it isn’t, which is inherently pointless. If I’d wanted to write a fantasy epic, I would have written a fantasy epic. It turns out I have no interest in writing a fantasy epic. So I suppose the only thing connecting me to Tolkien at this point is our shared love of long beards.
I still don’t think what I write is erotica at it’s heart and I’m pretty much at the point where I no longer care if other people think it is erotica. This isn’t because I have anything against erotica. Erotica is great when it is what it is. But I don’t set out to write erotica, so it’s silly when people insist that it should be erotica, then complain that it isn’t very good erotica. It’s basically the literary equivalent of adopting a pet porcupine and complaining that your cat is prickly.
I think that some people, perhaps vanilla people, don’t see spanking as being anything other than a sexual activity, but we all know that’s not the case. What is expressed in spanking stories is so much more than simple sexual impulses. Good spanking stories are about rebellion and benevolent control, about security and romance, about (and here I’m totally stealing from Devlin O’Neill) innocence and sensitivity. And sometimes, when I’m writing them, they’re also about warriors and sword-maidens and magical elves. And women. And men. And motorbikes. And the odd gym instructor.
*I am still getting editing help though. Because editing is good, and helps things become more of what they are.
Earlier this week, I mentioned forms. I mentioned the volume of forms. The importance of forms. The complexity and paper-delicate ecosystem that forms exist within.
What I did not mention – and I realize now that it was a grave error – was the submission of forms. You see, the submission of forms is almost as important as the existence of forms. Certainly, the gravity of the matter of the filling out of forms pales in comparison to the importance of filing them in the correct place.
That is why companies are insistent that forms are sent to a specific location. We were given very strict instructions as to which branch to send our forms to. It was iterated and reiterated that forms must go to this branch, else risk being lost forever in the formless void. As fate would have it, the branch in question, the branch our forms must go to, currently looks like this:
Some might call this incompetence. I call it a lesson in the Zen of forms. You see, when the forms are existent, the branch itself becomes formless. It’s like in quantum physics, where the exact location of an electron cannot be known. Like the electron, the branch does exist, not in a precise place, but in a cloud state of possibility.
This was never about forms. It was about beauty and truth and the impermanence of permanence, and the mustn’tness of musts. I can only thank the company in question for being so benevolent and guiding us on a journey, not to nowhere, but to now-varna.
It’s been quiet around here lately. That is because I am doing super adult things, like entering into negotiations. And, er, filling out forms. So, so many forms. There are forms for applying for other forms. Forms to email. Forms to sign. Forms to fill out in triplicate. Forms to confirm the filing of other forms. Forms for the formation of new forms. Formless forms.
Having been an online freelancer almost my entire working life, dealing with these things is weird. I’ve recently had several conversations with people who were wearing a tie. And if not a tie, a tasteful necklace. And that lady clothing that sort of drapes and isn’t jeans. I don’t even know what you call it. There’s been a steady flow of people wearing business attire and giving firm handshakes. This has been both bizarre and unsettling.
I have responded by wearing t-shirts with cats on them, sleeping a lot, and writing copious amounts of spanking fiction in an attempt to self-soothe. It’s working. I think.
An unlikely couple and a fascinating conversation. (Some of it is complete bullshit. Mental discretion advised.)
Having just watched all three Matrix movies, I have stumbled across the secret for survival as a woman in The Matrix. It’s a simple formula, easily applied to oneself with a minimum of fuss.
I noticed this pattern starting with Switch, who drew my eye on account of her being something like Thermite personified.
Switch doesn’t survive much longer than this shot in which it’s pretty obvious she’s not wearing a bra.
Saddened by Switch’s death, I felt a tingling of concern when I noticed that the doctor in the second Matrix movie also had a certain butch-y vibe to her (or at least had pretty short hair):
Sure enough, dead not half an hour later.
Having spotted the pattern, I held out precisely zero hope for the very attractive rocket launcher lady with the shaved head:
Yep, her end was particularly gruesome. It turns out, watching the entire Matrix series, that NO female with hair shorter than her shoulders lives, and EVERY female character with her hair longer than that survives. It would also appear that the shorter your hair is, the quicker and nastier you die in The Matrix universe. (The only exception to this is The Oracle, who arguably dies and simply happens to be reborn, so the short hair rule still holds true.) Interesting, no? One wonders what the Wachowski brothers, or Wachowski brother and sister as they are today, were thinking.