Idioteque

Monday seems a long time ago, it has to be said. The weather has not helped in making things easier: my optimal operating temperature is somewhere in the low 70’s (about 19-20 degrees Centigrade) and frankly, anything above that my lungs are not best pleased. Therefore, large portions of this week have been physically a challenge negotiating… but I have. It’s helped to shove all my exercise in early: this morning I managed a new dead lift personal best.

It’s a totally inspiring means to begin a day. It also puts into perspective, if it really needed to be highlighted, that all the work that was done in lockdown to keep fit and maintain my equilibrium has now produced not simply progress, but real potential for new opportunity. This journey is no longer about doing enough, after all. I want to exceed expectations, and start really turning back my body clock using exercise. The same is true with the writing. When I practice every day, things get better.

It is time to look at the results thus far, to find means to work past those expectations too.

Today, we’ve begun the process of introducing two new strands of content to Patreon for September. It’ll all be finished by the end of August, plus this weekend a ton of new things will (quietly) appear on the website here. The architecture is already in place, I just need to do some technical wizardry to make it happen, between a couple of bike rides and quite possibly some more writing.

There’s a lot more too, some mental health projects in progress that I can’t talk about yet (including some art) plus everything that we’ve previously discussed. There will be some fairly serious organization on that front starting next week, but once we have the Patreon LANzine ticked off for the month, everything becomes significantly less stressful to complete. Final pass on that will be Monday morning.

Keep an eye on the website this weekend, and watch the magic emerge before your eyes…

Unputdownable

This week, I have indulged myself in long-form narrative, and it has been smashing.

This writing project was originally NaNo, dumped in frustration because of a plot hole it was simply too hard for me to negotiate. The reason for that was very much tied up in trauma, it transpires, and I realised some inescapable truths coming out of the latest round of submissions: everything I’ve done with this project was to make deadlines or to assuage a desire within me that was never properly explored or explained. It’s no surprise therefore that this week, returning to it has become a revelation.

The Spotify soundtrack has really helped too, and after six years of mucking about, it looks as if starting tomorrow it will have a new direction. It becomes my vanity project, in effect, alternative to all the other stuff which now, like it or not, have become part of a work remit. That’s totally right and proper too, because without summat to look forward to or indulge in, everything else gets boring quite quickly.

Plus, let’s be fair, I’ve had enough of poetry for the time being.

However, it’s not been forgotten about, far from it. I announced today in Patreon that the cover above will be my first ‘proper’ pamphlet: Reboot 2 $hell is a project I’ve been working on, back and forth, for a couple of years, and is so niche that I realise now the only sure-fire means of doing it justice is to publish it myself. As yet, I’m not totally sure what form that will take, but can do nothing with the collection until I’ve created a layout.

So, there will be this secondary project running alongside the fiction for a couple of weeks, until I can create summat I’m happy with. There’ll be updates on progress, but I have ideas for some things that will personalise the project sufficiently. Needless to say now it’s been announced via Patron, I am obliged to make the imagined into summat real and tangible. That’s always a good motivator. This time however, there’s potential for making some cash along the way.

Let’s see if we can get a project like this off the ground without too much fuss.

Beautiful Noise

I’m still having trouble with a corrupted text file from last week, which is why at some point (probably tomorrow) you’ll see the rest of the Dr Who Fanfic appear on the site. Whilst I was sorting out these bits of my past, I’ve been enjoying an project doing the rounds: #SixFanarts, where Twitter Artists are using their own interests in fandom to draw classic characters from the places that have influenced their existences.

It occured to me this would be a great thing to do with fanfiction, and as it’s been a while since I flexed my creative muscles in that direction, it’s high time that changed. Therefore, for May, we’ll be making some interesting decisions using Twitter Polls, hashtags and graphics packages. I have plenty of shows that mattered a great deal to me growing up. Time to give the past an appropriate moment in the sun.

#sixfanfics_subjects

It’s simple, really: I’ll be posting some threads, starting next week, on both my ‘work’ and ‘personal’ Twitter, asking people to suggest either a) a TV show b) a game or c) a film from the six particular decades listed that I can use as basis for a drabble. This does also remind me that I’ve been alive during seven decades, which is not something to dwell upon, but it does grant a massive scope for potential.

I’ve had a number of conversations in the last few weeks that have highlighted stuff I’d forgotten about in TV terms, especially from the 1970’s, so it seems like a good idea to open discussion a bit to see if there’s anything else that has been lost to the mists of time. After all the votes get collated, I’ll present you with the goods. Can’t say fairer than that. It also gives me summat useful to concentrate on other than poetry.

talentindrinking

Let’s see where this new adventure takes us, shall we?

The Stolen Earth

I promised you last week that there would be history arriving: here it is.

It’s March 2008 and I’m a bit nervous. The appointment of Catherine Tate as David Tennant’s new companion in the TARDIS, after the departure of first Billie Piper and then Freema Agyeman, was controversial. Not for me, however. The chemistry between the two was obvious, and not in the manner that had been created previously. Donna Noble was a good old-fashioned companion.

Her season in the TARDIS was more than I could ever possibly have hoped for.

Doc&Donna

I’ve been a WHO fan since Patrick Troughton in the late 1960’s. The reboot was, it has to be said, all I could really have wanted in my life when it reappeared, and since then there have been periods in which I have drifted in and out of love with the path the new show has taken. Peter Capaldi left me cold. The last season, with Jodie Whittaker, is undoubtedly some of the most fun I’ve had since the Doctor and Donna.

However, only one pairing ever got fanfic written about them, and it still remains, stuck on my hard drive after over a decade. There’s three parts to this, and they will require you to have a working knowledge of that 2008 season…

episodelist

Season Four is available to watch, right now, on Amazon Prime, so if you happen to have some free time, or indeed own the DVDs as I do *cough* you’ll need to have watched up to the end of Forest of the Dead to be at the correct narrative point. Strange Days was originally posted on LiveJournal (yes kids, I was there) after the end of that two part episode. It introduces a plot device that will be seen again in Wednesday’s vignette.

Enjoy something I first shared with a small part of the Internet over twelve years ago.

strange days

Read Strange Days Here


My Favourite Things

Last day of February, and starting tomorrow there will be no more poetry until the start of April. The burnout really is real, and it has been a very long time since I threw myself into something that worked as wish fulfilment before anything else. Enter Ternary which is a writing project which is likely to be familiar already to those of you who have been here for a while.

Ternary.png

This used to be The Sayers which began as weekly fiction. Now it’s been amended, extensively edited and is in the course of being completely re-written from scratch. That’s what I’m going to do with my free time in the next few weeks, as well as the other stuff that you’ll have seen in Monday’s blog post. It has a soundtrack Spotify playlist (under construction) and I keep writing bits of dialogue down as stuff occurs to me and in that regard, it’s already a success.

The ultimate irony however is that it begins with a poem.

Progression and development means different things to different people. For me, even if I can’t stand the sight of it right now, poetry’s become part of my psyche. It is also remarkably important in the alternate history I’m writing, that the piece which starts the book pretty much underpins everything that takes place during the first part of what, on reflection, was always going to be a trilogy. How I decide to publish it remains to be seen. This year’s submissions elsewhere will probably determine that path.

For now, there’s the unbridled joy of a new thing to do, and that honestly the last thing I care about now is how other people get to read it when it’s done. All that matters is the telling: we have a beginning, middle and end, with all points in-between covered. That in itself is a glorious state of affairs that’s not taken place for quite some time.

Rip It Up

As a wise man once said: break’s over. Time to get back to work.

whole

On my way back from Blood Donation #6 this morning [four more and I GET A BADGE] the entire plan for January’s Short Story got thrown in the furnace. Instead, we have a NEW PLAN and, in even more SHOCK NEWS, the luxury of a cushion of content at the get-go. I do love scheduling things, but that largely involves having the ideas ready to roll. This time, WE DO. This is, quite frankly, unbelievable scenes.

MEH

It’s not just this stuff that’s raring to go either. The reason why EX/WHI‘s not on the site either (but should be tomorrow) is that late last week, an opportunity presented itself to take all the sad, rejected poetry from this year (of which there is a fair amount) and reinvent it as a collection. How could I refuse? Add to that the best of my online output for the year (I checked, they’ll accept work that has been published online but that isn’t part of a collection) and BOOM there was a lovely flurry of very productive activity.

Quite a few things were ‘refreshed’ from the ground up, whilst a couple simply got cut and pasted into the .PDF. It was a particularly good exercise in knowing what works with my poetry, and being brutal over what used to be good and is absolutely no longer the case. Oh, and for a contest that closes tomorrow, there’s a new poem too: the chances of that winning its particular prize are astronomically tiny. In fact, should even get a mention in dispatches, I’ll eat a snood.

I don’t have time to chat, there’s still far too much to do here. If I can truly get on top of this as the New Year rolls in, there’s a good chance to feel suitably invincible for several weeks.

That’s something worth making an effort for…

The First Time

Everything you will ever need to know about me exists online. No, really, it does. You’d be surprised just how much personal detail has been exposed via the wonders of the World Wide Web since the 1990’s, but to make it easier for you I’ve put together some notable moments in personal history.


writing-as-therapy

The ‘Writing as Therapy’ tag is where a lot of early, formative conclusions have come to be in relation to what I do here. It also has a lot of interesting anecdotes hidden within, including the reason why religion caused grief in my late teens. The quality may be variable, but there’s a LOT of good stuff here.


Write off (3)

Then, there’s my FanFiction. It would be a foolish woman who did not acknowledge the debt this form of hero worship has had on my life. My first fanfic was written, on a typewriter, somewhere in the early 1990’s. Yes, I still have it and no, it doesn’t get shared. Since then, we’ve covered multiple genres and countless TV shows and movies. Over Christmas, I’ll be taking the most recent efforts away for a much-needed edit.

duet_banner_450

James Bond and I have a love/hate relationship right now, but the two fanfics I wrote (over 100k words) represent an important step in writing development. You can find Duet and Default here. I will never be anything else but utterly proud of these pieces.

I created two damn good stories.


Poetry

I hated poetry two years ago, with a fair passion, before it became apparent that the main reason for this was because I couldn’t write it. My artist friends keep telling me: if you want to draw, you should practice every day, and eventually you will get somewhere. They’re right, of course. Every day since that revelation, poetry has been written and now, after a LOT of hard work the form is now a thing.

januarywriting

Search my poetry tags for weekly forms, one offs and daily ruminations, plus specially- created compositions using my own photographs. I’m particularly proud of the 2017 Thinktober visuals, which represented the first time both words and pictures were specifically designed to complement each other.


There’s a lot more on the site, if you’d like to take some time to wander about. Now I’ve explained the lay of the land, the next series of posts will give you some detail about the person behind it…

Right Now

For Short Story Month, I’m writing three separate pieces with a single theme. It is time to admit we’re moving into a science fiction phase: I’ve always been a bit of an alternate history girl, when all is said and done. This triumvirate of stories all offer divergent timelines to the one you’ll be used to, with the possible consequences of women meddling in the affairs of nature:

All these stories have female protagonists. They could be written as men if I chose, but I’d like to believe that it is not just them sending this Planet to destruction. Everybody has their culpability in a massive ecological and sociological mess to shoulder. The subjects of the stories are, in order of the images shown: alien invasion, genetic manipulation and time travel. Occam’s Taser is the result of a conversation had several years ago with my friend Steve (who’s a morning US Television producer) about Vienna in 1913… and that’s all I’m prepared to offer.

The plan initially was to use one of these stories to enter in a Short Story Contest later in the year but instead, the project’s a platform to get my word count and writing style refined, before I work on two separate pieces for entry. This is being handled in tandem with editing my novel, which is finally in what could be considered a complete state. Today, that will be read completely and edited as that happens. I hope to have the first of these short stories available to read by this time next week, with them all finished by the end of the month.

12 Spots to Moan :: Fertility; Rights

As it’s Valentines Day, I felt that there should be some love-related tomfoolery to celebrate. Therefore, here’s a VERY NSFW Short story, which will form part of my 12 Spots to Moan short story collection.

WARNING: NSFW means what it says: this story deals is sexual with adult themes and should, as a result, be approached responsibly.

Have a Nice Day, and always remember to love yourself.


Fertility; Rights

Their divorce had been messy and hugely unsatisfying, effective reflection of a wasted life together. Christine had no qualms allowing Russell both house and car, wasn’t concerned that the deal skewed so far in his favour. She’d never cared for the material: that last straw between them had been net worth mattered more than shared experience. The money quietly funnelled away to accounts in her maiden name when his indiscretion became apparent years before amazingly never came up in proceedings: her skill playing Stock Market Futures meant departing husband provided a present that was more than secure. At thirty-eight, there was still a chance at another life, but right now she wasn’t interested.

Christine Frances wanted to travel far more than pretending to be happy with somebody else.

Her tiny scarlet hire car had made a slow crawl across Europe during the last three months, finally depositing the woman in Italy. Of all the places visited, this was the one which felt most comfortable: the French obsessed about her accent, the Swiss over her single status. Nobody in Italy had seemed to care at all about anything except accentuating happiness and comfort, especially in her current pension. In fact, since arriving ten days earlier at the red brick complex she’d been treated as something akin to royalty. There is no desire to complain either: with full board paid until end of the month, this beautiful and largely unspoilt area is hers to explore at leisure.

The Pertosa Caves are blessed relief from the heat of the Italian summer, drought in the area becoming something of a concern for local landowners. This guide-book is in awful English but Christine can grasp the gist, as place heaves with schoolchildren and pilgrims coming to offer their prayers to a particularly worn and battered statue of some long-forgotten patron saint. Christine however is more concerned with the state of her own body; the contraceptive coil she had fitted to regulate menstruation before departure had effectively stopped all bleeding. For a while she’d not been concerned, because it made life considerably simpler, but now…

The sensations had begun the night she’d arrived, after the voluptuous middle-aged landlady had served an amazing dinner of fresh pasta with a brilliantly rich fruit dessert. After months of no sexual desire at all, body had painfully reminded her that she was able not only to feel arousal, but was often in its thrall until satisfied. She’d ended up masturbating in the shower at 2am so there was chance of sleep, and the simplest things had become steadily more arousing as time had gone on. Before there would be a couple of nights a month where ardour would rise then fall, but not now. For the last week, all she had been able to think about is sex.

That thought suddenly draws her eye to a part of the cave’s natural construction behind the statue, seemingly unnoticed by anyone else.

She stares with increasing amazement at a particular stalactite, suddenly illuminated in a shaft of sunlight from an opening above. It is thick and long, jutting almost contentiously out of the soft, worn rock, damp and moist. There’s an undoubted head to the formation too, slightly larger and fatter than the shaft, and just staring at the thing is making Christine uncomfortable, flustered. Nobody else seems to even register its presence but it is all the woman sees or wants, because the urge to fuck herself against it is now overwhelming and desperate. The arousal hits lower body instantly, dampness spreading as a flood, breasts hard and irritable beneath the flimsiness of her cotton top.

Noise from the assorted throngs is silenced, and all that matters is the stone: she can imagine it, penetrating hot flesh, cooling the desire within. It almost calls to her, a song of need and satisfaction, suggesting the impossible could become real, brilliant. Go home and eat, then take an evening stroll. The cave entrance closes just before sundown. Return here and satisfy yourself, give your pleasure to the Earth, and it will reward you in return. The woman stands, whole body aroused, as world blithely continues its existence around her.

She has never imagined anything so wanton in her life and now this was all that mattered.


It is hard to look casual, slipping in with the last round of pilgrims and nuns, dressed as conservatively as she can manage. Christine’s underwear is loose, easy to remove and she’s stolen a small bottle of olive oil from her pension’s dinner table, because lubrication is likely to be a problem. It’s at times like this that she wishes her breasts were bigger, that she’d love more flesh beneath her own hands to manipulate, the same with her arse. Mostly she was too thin, and maybe it was time to stop punishing body for the sins a loveless marriage had intensified.

Tonight she would wait until a full moon lit the cave and then indulge desire: she’d bought a sleeping bag to accommodate sleep until the complex opened, when she’d slip out unnoticed. Christine’s body is already vibrating with anticipation, thrill of deviancy and impropriety combined. She waits until the gates can be heard being locked, lights turned off, making anticipation and arousal all the greater. With torch light from her mobile phone as guide, slowly the metal railings that keep visitors from the cave area are negotiated. Moving carefully down onto slippery stone floor, the small alcove where stalactite juts upwards is all that matters.

She is concerned that there’s insufficient space to fit, that ground beneath knees will be harsh and unyielding, but the base of the area is soft, springy and slightly damp. Stripping naked, Christine prepares to position herself, massive head of the rock inches from her already soaking wet opening. The oil seems like an afterthought but its use is more stimulation, moving and pouring it onto the top of the stone where she rubs first hand then crotch, feeling consistency of nature under shaking body. The surface is almost warm to touch, smooth hardness that now needs to be felt inside as well as out, and so she positions herself to begin.

Flesh and stone contact, settle: with first movement body expands without aid. This is far larger than anything she’d ever accommodated, including her ex-husband’s fist. Expecting both pain and resistance as a result, neither are forthcoming: pushing against the stone, her body swallows the head whole in one motion, leaving Christine gasping with amazement.

She is frozen, rock solid: part of this whole is no longer enough.

Body shudders at realisation, that as she moves down it will fill upwards, unyielding and permanent, and so body begins to shift, crotch moving closer to dampness beneath. Each tiny shift makes breasts harden further, increases already frantic heart-rate and finally, amazingly pubic hair and labia collide with soft, springy moss. Christine is shaking uncontrollably, unable to contain the pleasure simply gained by filling herself and has to struggle to remain upright as a result. Clitoris screams to be stimulated, urging completion of an orgasm already in progress, yet hands go to breasts instead, oil on flesh that is oddly pliant, strangely liquid under smooth fingers. As she massages it is as if the flesh expands beneath her touch, swelling and hardening as she twists nipples, increasing pleasure at the point that cunt hits moss.

Then floor shifts beneath, faintest of upward thrusts.

Christine’s not sure if she’s hallucinating due to pleasure overload or that perhaps there’s an earthquake in progress, but the movement is unmistakeable now, stalactite rising and falling as her body remains frozen, intractable. Breasts that barely existed have grown to grapefruit sized, heavy balls of flesh she refuses to release because the pleasure they’re sending to her lower body will not be interrupted, regardless of the increasingly surreal nature of this situation. Closing eyes she gives herself completely to pleasure and there is sudden pressure on her clit, unmistakeable, repetitive massage and it doesn’t matter how, just that this never stops, because she is so close now to a series of orgasms that threaten to rend body asunder.

Touches appear everywhere, kisses on arse and stomach, caresses behind her ears, backs of knees. Every sensitive spot is stimulated simultaneously and the thrusts are now fast, urgently pushing the point inside that blossoms with the same sensations outside, connected to breasts and the back of her neck. She begins to gasp, not caring about being discovered, pleasure needing to be vocalised. Still there is no apex to the sensation, simply building intensity that is become maddening, almost blinding. Are her eyes open or closed? She looks down and a hand is reaching up, another rising from the warmth of the cave floor, grasping willing hips as she begins to ascend, other hands holding legs in place as the thrusts within her become frantic, blurring to a speed that should split her open but only serve to further intensify this pleasure.

Christine’s breasts have increased to watermelon size, hardened balls that bounce without pain, only intense sensation from their massive nippled tops to connection at her crotch. She expands too at hips, earth’s mossy hands on swelling expanses, becoming a goddess, Botticelli swells and falls. No fat or waste, simply muscle and skin, warming as the red blush of orgasm spreads from chest to stomach. The reinvented body finally explodes, screams of pleasure multiple and unbridled, echoing around the cave walls as release floods everything in a massive wall of water.

Her orgasm, spark of primal awakening, is truly enough to move Earth itself.


Christine is suddenly conscious, in the low wooden cot at her pension, to surprise at her location. Lying inert, the passion of an almost endless orgasm still resonates through flesh and bone, yet here she is in her own bed. After dinner, when she’d come up to the room to collect backpack with sleeping bag, had she simply fallen asleep and dreamed the entire experience? Feeling down to her crotch there is no wetness, but strangeness to being which causes sudden alarm, enough to move body from lying to sitting. Looking down, with mounting amazement, her torso is not as it was.

Getting up to stare at the naked form in an ancient, patina-stained mirror by hand-carved dresser, Christine Frances is no longer wafer thin with an exposed ribcage. This body now curves with weight; taut, strong muscle plus a light tan. This physical form she had always craved, but had no idea how to achieve. Turning, the sound of laughter in her mind is as amazing as the thunder which echoes throughout the Pertosa Valley. Rain outside, torrential yet calming illuminates the truth… she’d been carried from the cave, returned here by the Earth itself. Bathed and pleasured by something not of this world, her release served as catalyst: explosion that returned not simply life and prosperity to the Valley, but to its ancient, sleeping protector…


This human’s fertility had awoken something very old, far less interested in virgin worship, which craved specific forms of energy to survive. Now She was again awake, coursing through this woman’s body, continued need maintained a level of chemical complexity to both feed from and grow… There was no need to sacrifice this fragile form, but reward it for joy provided… and there were already others. The local women knew these truths via stories and songs, would soon queue to give their offering to the cave.

With each one the Valley would become more fertile.

The ancient statue of the last human Vessel of the Goddess had already been removed from the caves. Christine’s new form would be sculpted and placed in its stead. The First would be to whom prayers were offered, in return She would share the secret of transformation… plus means to maintain its potency. For that, Her followers had already been prepared, feeding Christine special food and awakening within desire long lost. It was time to communicate directly with the new Vessel, securing mental link between Earth and human going forward.

Thank you for trust given back to this land, making whole and full again. In return, your wishes are granted. We ask in return for continued passion and our flesh anointed. All that you require will be provided. As you pleasure us, we will maintain you.

The scarlet-clad landlady stands at Christine’s open door, Hand of the Goddess, ready to help provide the next step forward. In open arms is a warped, ancient wooden box: inside which sits a massive offering, made of living cave stone.


 

Forget Myself

We are into Week Three of my drawing/comic strip adventures, with ACTUAL Progress breaking out. However, apart from the poetry this month, there has been no actual work on fiction work since the middle of December. I’m using a short story to properly debut the ‘serialised Twitter content’ that was pre-written a while ago. I need new material, and have the deadline of the end of the month to edit my NaNoWriMo novel. Should I be worried therefore that the only idea in my head right now is of no use to me whatsoever?

I know full well why brain is pushing for a sequel to my two Bond fanfics. This is the wish fulfilment that keeps me sane and happy, and did for long periods when Real Life did not go as planned. The problem is, of course, that fanfic doesn’t pay bills. It won’t get me noticed as a serious writer. Fortunately for me I think I’ve found the means to bypass the problems and get back on track, and that is what is happening this week. The central conceit that would have been used as plot in the fic is, on reflection, far too good to be wasted on someone else’s characters. I’ll be inventing my own plot therefore to go with the idea, and once that’s done it is time to leave the world of other people’s stories behind and finally produce my own.

The J Word will be serving a useful function in that regard in the months to come, I hope.

I’m hoping, sometime later in the year, to tell a story using the Comic Strip. To do that I need a) the right narrative and b) to be able to provide the elements required. That’s also the plan for Christmas gifts in 2018, to draw Infographics for everybody I know. With that long term objective in mind I cannot afford to let anything slide, especially the storytelling elements of my process. It means that it is time to get my brain out of mothballs and start pushing fiction to the forefront.

As with everything, I’ll keep you updated on progression as we go.