The voices inside my head.

Liz: No, no, don't do it that way. Too easy. It's just too easy. Plus, if every time something wrong happens she appears and saves the day, there is no stopping it. She'll be deus ex machina every goddamn time. You can't do this.

Elizabeth: Yeah, smartass. And what do you propose? He saw them, he will alert the rest. What if they kill him? This is the logical thing to do.

Elizadeath: I want to die. It's all meaningless. I don't know why I bother writing. It's going to be a failure anyway. I'll never be good enough. English is not my first language. Why do I even try?

Liz and Elizabeth in one voice: SHUT UP, MORON.

Liz: They can't kill him. She won't allow it, and none is powerful enough to do it. He has to stay alive. But if he remains alive, cut the memory loss crap. It just isn't a good idea. Work your way around it.

Elizabeth: For the fuck of love. Why make things complex? He saw them, she erased his memory. If he dies it will be World War three in London. The Overseers from the other capitals will fly there and then London will be turned upside down. Two out of three protagonists will have to flee. How the hell am I supposed to write a book with two of them in different countries?

Elizadeath: I have become so fat. My tummy is like I am pregnant. I will never get laid again. Look at how white my hair has become. I want to die. I want to eat an ice-cream. Everything is meaningless.

Liz and Elizabeth: SHUT UP, MORON.

Liz: Plus the "erase the memory" thing is basic in Identity Crisis. You cannot do that, you know it's not really a solution. You really need to find another way of doing it. Even if it means killing him.

Elizabeth: I thought about that. I am not sure I can handle the way this will go if I kill him. Simple solutions always work best.

Liz: That's not a simple solution. It's a sell-off. You can do better than insult the intelligence of your readers. You need to find another way to do it. Quit it already with the 'no can do' routine. You can, and you'll do.

Elizabeth: Arrrrrghhhhh I hate you! I fucking hate you! You make my life hell!

Liz: But you know I am right.

Elizadeath: Stop arguing. You're giving me a headache. Life is meaningless. No-one loves me.

Liz and Elizabeth: SHUT UP, MORON.

Elizadeath: Whatever. I am making tea. Who wants some tea?

Liz: Roasted Japanese tea for me.

Elizabeth: Vanilla flavoured black tea for me.

Elizadeath: Fuck you. I am making some rosemary. Make your own.

Liz: Eat my shit and die.

Elizabeth: Get stuffed.

Elizadeath raises her middle finger to both and goes off to make tea.

Both pictures taken from here: http://pavel-petel.tumblr.com/

Concentration exercises

So what do you do when you finish the first book?

Naturally, you continue to the second. Especially since the first book offers no conclusion whatsoever, but rather, leaves the readers hanging high and dry. And cursing. You don't  know if this is what will happen, which means, the readers being hooked enough to feel personally wronged and cheated if you leave them at that point at the end of the book. You hope it will. At least if you were a reader, you wouldn't just curse, you'd threaten the author with tortures that would make demons blanch. Only it's too damn hot to write, or think. Or even scratch yourself. So you manage to write about half a chapter and even the sound of the keyboard lulls you to sleep.

Still you have a second book to finish. And there is the matter of the edited short stories you need to check.

Bah. So damn sleepy to do any of that. So damn sleepy to keep my eyes open.

Only I am at work. :P

Summer's here

Translation: if I could spend my days half-immersed in a barrel of water and do everything from inside the barrel, I would. I'd fit those small wheels at the bottom and move around. I'd wear a bikini and air my luscious tummy. And splash water on passers by.

I received my edited short stories back. I have not looked at them yet. Or rather I did take a look, but that's about it. I did not bother further. At some point I need to go through the corrections and see what I'll keep from the changes. Noticed my saying, "at some point". It's not as simple as it seems. At least judging from the dreams I see, where I am trying to protect a baby from vampires that mysteriously kill the family and realise at some point that the vampire is the child itself. Child= creation. I need to protect both myself and my creation.

Come on, two chapters left. Move your ass and write them. Two bloody chapters to finish the damn book. Come on, girl. Write and stop your bellyaching.

Bah.

Αchievements of the week plus book giveaway for the 20.000 pageviews..

1) Sore throat, nightmares, waking up sweaty.

2) Made address labels with Alexander Skarsgard. Cut them to size and I am waiting for friendship books to arrive in order to use them.

3) Two, maximum three more chapters and book number one is finished. Three of the heroes appear to have died. Let's see if we can make them five.

4) Sorted through J-rock magazines, about fifteen of them will go. Four are gone already.

5) Finished one more book and listed it to be given away at http://bookmooch.com/

6) Passed 20.000 pageviews in this blog. Well not yet, but with this entry I am sure I will.

Here is your chance to get free (used) books.

I have four books I am giving away for free. You can ask for as many as you want, even all of them if you want.

Desperation by Stephen King.

(Taken)

Cravings by Laurell K. Hamilton, Rebecca York etc.

(Taken)

Daemon Eyes by Camille Bacon-Smith.

The Lincoln Lawyer by Michael Connelly.

(Different cover)
(Taken)

You can ask for any of these books to be sent to you absolutely free. Just email me and give me a postal address. The books will be given away on a first come, first served basis. This is not a trick; I am giving these same books away via bookmooch. If you are the winner I will email you and let you know. :) As soon as the book is gone I will write it just under the book as a comment.

Come on! Ask away!

Voodoo and stainless steel panties.

I was reading about Voodoo, Hoodoo, African indigenous religions and Santeria for two or three hours yesterday. It was research for the novel. It paid off, but if someone was to see the history of my computer they'd rub their eyes at first and pack their stuff immediately afterwards.

I realised that the super handsome guy with the long black hair who has been a regular at a penpal's  Facebook is one of the four members of Apocalyptica. In fact the one I consider the funniest and handsomest of all four. That's why he looked familiar. *facepalm* I had not realised, partly because my penpal/ friend never told me and partly because remembering long Finnish names is not my forte. Then again she never said anything about composing or contributing to a lot of their songs either. That calls for some serious ass whacking as soon as I get her ass in my hands.  Not for any other reason, but because I suspect this is merely the tip of the iceberg of what she has not told me. I know she is reading my blog, so buying herself a stainless steel pair of panties for our first meeting sounds like advice she should take. After I cuddle her to her near death, a spanking is in order. Of course, with her being in Japan and everything it seems highly unlikely I'll ever do meet her. Don't ask me what she's doing in Japan. I don't know. She hasn't told me. *sigh and aaarghhh*

I think I am about to finish the first book(?) of my trilogy (???). It came sooner than I expected, after using a tool called 'word count' (bwahaha :D) and the realisation it's actually a good point to stop. But even as I start tying loose ends, I can't help wondering. Wondering about a lot of things. Phoooey. My friend H. says he will read it although in his case the meter for homophobia would show a solid eleven in a climax of ten. In fact he said some very sweet things to me yesterday and helped me snap out of my depression. :) We may disagree on a lot but in his case there is one thing I can count on. He loves me, just as I love him. If he sees me happy, he'll be happy. And he's a person who has always had absolute faith in my writing. I cannot thank him enough for that.

I want ice cream. :P Served on the smooth skin of a teenage elven boy. :P :P :P

I'll say something that is perhaps self-explanatory, or has been said far too often.

Thank God/dess for music, for without music I wouldn't have those last negligible bits of sanity left in me.

Thank the entire Universe for art and the kindness of strangers.

I need to write a blog entry on Jesus Christ. Maybe next time.

Like trying to teach cats synchronised swimming.

That’s what it feels like. Three heroes, three storylines, important events happening to all three of them, then two of them finally meeting. The writer needs to make sure the appropriate events have happened in the previous ‘days’ of the novel to all three before the two meet. Like being handed an open origami and instructed to fold it back in shape. I fold here, fold there, nothing falls in place at first. I think I finally got it right. Then I started writing here. I am not so sure I did get it right. If I discover yet another discontinuity, I’ll start cursing and re-arranging again. It won’t be nice.

The lower back is okay. Not so sure of my brain after three eclipses in a row.

There is a lot of sex in my book(s). Not so sure if this is good or not. There is no sex in the writer’s life, so it all has to balance out, I guess. And some of the sex in my book is not the kind of sex I’d like to have, thank you very much. My idea of sex has me still alive after finishing. Some of my heroes aren’t that wise.

A penpal told me to read the books of a writer specialising in vampires. Read an online excerpt. I found it mind-blowingly inane. It was like discussions between women happening at the hairdresser’s, but with vampires wearing kilts and getting married as their subject matter. I mean seriously WTF. 

http://www.kerrelynsparks.com/bk11_engagement.html

Afterwards, I was suggested the books of another vampire writer by another penpal. Turns out I had read a longish story by her just a few weeks ago and it was something between a mediocre video game and the average ‘Vampire: the Masquerade’ session I used to play. Which in turn means, nothing I’d like to read more of any time soon. 

Then I was told to take a look to the site of another writer. It was like reading a teenager with a 500 word vocabulary describing having sex. It was all ‘wonderful’ and ‘tickling’. With boredom for me and orgasms for the heroine. Now go figure. 

http://www.erotica-laurastamps.blogspot.gr/2013/03/boinking-vampires-boinking-feyoh-my.html 

It’s been a while since someone in the novel has been beaten black and blue. I think I am going to go and do just that. Since I can’t beat black and blue some people I have in mind, someone else will pay. :D

Anita Blake

I have read six of the Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter series books by Laurell Hamilton. The main reason I keep reading the series is to see Anita finally. Get. Laid. The plot is not bad, either, although it is not good in every book. Anita is often irritating and the writer repeats the same plot tricks and machinations to make Anita react in her very familiar, annoying, stubborn, inconsiderate way. Which means, whenever there is a new woman around, she is usually taller than Anita and she will inevitably insult and irritate the protagonist until she springs into action and 'proves' herself. Whenever there is a new bad vampire in the series, usually it's a man torturing or wanting to rape some poor helpless woman, or it's a woman torturing someone weaker, so once more Anita has to save the day. And it's the same plot element, recurring in every book. Again, and again, and again. One would have expected word of Anita kicking so much ass going around and making other vampires wary, but no, it never happens. They consider Anita the ideal candidate for their inane little power games and idiotic self-confirmation experiments. And Anita is always happy to rise to the challenge, making you wonder who's the most stupid and childish of the two, the vampire that doesn't know the extend of Anita's powers or Anita who does.

Anyway, Anita does get laid, at the end of book six, just as I was about to eat my socks out of sheer frustration. But then another frustration comes along. The sex scene itself, which is description, not erotica. Because erotic writing is so much more than description of what goes in where and the kind of noises people make when they fuck, or about licking foamy water from each other. I check on wiki and see that reviewers comment on how the series becomes boring from book 14th onward. Unfortunately for me, the boredom concerning sex descriptions started in book six. I felt cheated to expect something for so long and not get it in the end. And yes, the books are erotically charged, but that's what they remain; charged. That tension is not released. At least I have not seen it released yet.

*Sigh*

"Few mainstream books delve so deeply into pure, unadulterated erotica"?

Wait for me, motherfuckers. Just you fucking wait.

 

Anita Blake

Reader reaction to the series's shift in tone from crime noir thriller to focus more predominantly on the sexual themes in the series has been mixed, starting with Narcissus in Chains when the main character of Anita Blake becomes infected with the ardeur. The ardeur is a supernatural power inadvertently given to Anita by her vampire Master Jean-Claude that gives her massive amounts of power but also demands that she have sexual intercourse with several different people through the course of a day, sometimes in large groups. Reception to these dynamics and to the usage of sexual abuse, incest, and rape in later books has been mixed,^[3] with some reviewers commenting that the character of Anita spent too much time "obsessing about whether or not she’s a slut" while others remarked that the erotic themes enhanced the series.^[7] In response to these comments, Hamilton issued a blog entitled "Dear Negative Reader" where she addressed a growing number of readers on the Internet that was expressing disappointment in the series's changes.^[3][8] In the blog Hamilton told the readers that "life is too short to read books you don’t like" and that if they found that the current subject matter pushed "you past that comfortable envelope of the mundane" then "stop reading" and speculated that some of the readers were either "closet readers" or comment based on others' opinions.^[3][8] The blog entry was negatively received by some readers.^[3]

Critical reviewers have also commented on the amount of sex in later books, as in a 2006 review in the The Boston Globe of Micah. The review was largely negative, stating "we were not impressed. Hamilton no doubt appeals to romance and erotica lovers, but it does not take long for the clichés and the constant droning about sex to become tiresome."^[9] Other reviewers for The Kansas City Star and Publishers Weekly also commented on the rise in sexual themes in the series.^[10] The reviewer for the Kansas City Star stating that "After 13 erotically charged books, boredom has reared its ugly head for the 14th novel in Laurell K. Hamilton's Anita Blake series, as eroticism becomes mere description..." and Publishers Weekly commenting that Blood Noir had a "growing air of ennui, which longtime readers can't help sharing as sex increasingly takes the place of plot and character development".^[11]

In contrast, a Denver Post review of Danse Macabre took a more positive view of the eroticism in Hamilton's work. Although it noted that "[t]hose looking for mystery and mayhem on this Anita adventure are out of luck" it also stated that "the main attraction of the Anita Blake novels in the past five years has been their erotic novelty", and "[f]ew, if any, mainstream novels delve so deeply into pure, unadulterated erotica".^[12]

  

Taken from here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laurell_K._Hamilton#Anita_Blake 

With all that said and done, let me add a few pictures of Jean Claude, Anita's vampire boyfriend just for kicks... Damn, if I had such a character in my books I would write the new Iliad with sex-obsessed, penis-brandishing, humping-you-unexpectedly-in-dark-corners vampires.

The last two pictures are taken from here:  
http://arianne023.deviantart.com/art/Jean-Claude-and-Anita-Blake-322530203

Cold sweat, or, anus, what a wonderful word.

Ooooooooh VERY PRETTY...

I make tea to calm my head down.

There's an English Thesaurus, one ancient English-Greek/ Greek-English dictionary and one English grammar book carelessly thrown on various surfaces near me. My fingers run the keyboard. I am flushed. I feel private parts of mine clench and unclench. A customer comes. I sell a pack of cigarettes. The customer leaves. I stretch my back. I continue writing. My villain is fucking an innocent young man blind. I try to keep my sentences small, which is always a struggle for me. The words need to be precise and convey what both heroes feel. I am trying to decide whether to use the word 'rod'. It seems ridiculous and decide against it. Generally speaking, I am in favour of more simple language. Nothing wrong with 'cock', 'asshole', 'fuck'. But I don't like repetition and I don't like vulgarity. It makes the whole procedure more interesting and more difficult.

I read what I've written.

I swallow a couple of times.

I wonder what the average man will think of it. He will probably screech in terror and run away. Casual bisexuality has never been the average man's strong point. Masculine characters that offer oral pleasure to other masculine characters can't possibly be protagonists if you aim at a male audience.

Fuck the male audience. I am writing this for me. I am writing because I want to read it and get horny. If my writing makes me horny, then perhaps more readers will get horny. If I am writing this to aim at an audience, I am like a blind man shooting arrows to the moon. I'll get shit.

I wonder what kind of publisher would want to publish my book.

A gay man, most likely. Or an open-minded woman with cojones the size of watermelons.

I read what the villain says to his young hostage. The image of myself hiding in a cave while all the media worldwide crucify me flashes before my eyes. I see my mother's stunned expression as journalists ask her what she thinks of her daughter's preoccupation with what can fit inside a human anus. I can even hear her outraged questions, demanding more information from the journalists.

I can see you all wondering what the hell, doesn't your mom know what you're writing about?

Are you crazy? Of course my mother doesn't know what I am writing about. She knows that I write about vampires and does not even like that. 

Writing is not about safe ground, or making your mom happy.

Writing is about as easy as walking butt naked in public display. While masturbating. And screaming obscenities. With a loudspeaker. In a stadium. Full of Mormons.

With a wry smile, I consider that the customer probably wouldn't have wanted that pack of cigarettes if he knew the places my mental fingers had been seconds before.

I make a mental note to find a cave with internet signal.

I make a second mental note not to tell my mom where the cave is and go back to writing. 

Male/ male erotica.

Picture taken from http://www.reviewsbyjessewave.com/

Please visit if you're interested in reading reviews on male/ male erotica books.

I am a re-reading a collection of male/male erotica I have, Flesh and The Word 2. The one who compiled it as well as commented on various parts of it is a man, John D. Preston. The same goes for almost every writer in there, save for three or four women. It gave me a bunch of thoughts to deal with and try to unravel.

Now, I myself write male/ male erotica, and I've read some, including yaoi, which is Japanese comics focusing on male/ male relationships written and drawn by women. To be honest I have not read that much of this genre. The vast majority of m/m erotica I come across is written by girls to be read by other girls. Most of it is godawful. It's not about men having sex but about a female fantasy, and to be more precise, a teenage female fantasy, of men having sex. I am not sure why so many teenage girls find the idea of a male/ male erotica piece more appealing that the idea of a male/ female or a female/ female. Perhaps the disassociation from their own bodies and gender restrictions allows them to experience greater freedom in expressing themselves. There is only one catch. Not having the necessary equipment (penis and testicles) nor the hormone responsible for the function of the aforesaid equipment (testosterone) effectively deprives a woman of knowing what it feels like to have sex like a man does. And I am obviously not referring to receiving sex anally since both sexes have an anus. Even from that aspect, men happen to have the prostate at very close proximity, something again a woman cannot know what it feels like. But even more than that, how can a woman possibly know what it feels to have an erection, or to ejaculate?

With that in mind, let me touch on what bothers me even more than lack of a penis.

Men are not women. I am not going to analyse why that is and whether it is social conditioning that creates differences in our behaviour, or whatever. I am not a biologist or a sociologist. I just take it as a given fact. Men are not women. They don't function in the same way. They are not attracted by the same things, and more than anything else, they don't behave like women. Here is the key to understanding why most m/m erotica written by women is about as related to men having sex with other men as the Muppet Show is related to porn.

Men don't speak like women. They don't engage in long winding descriptions of how they feel. They don't use pretty words when they fuck. In fact, as soon as a good rock-hard erection steps in the game, you can safely presume that the vocabulary drops down to perhaps one hundred words, a large portion of which are swearwords. The blood goes somewhere else. Brain switches off. Fact.

Gay men don't walk hand in hand and murmur sweet nothings to each other's ear in public view. When they have a relationship, neither of the two is the 'wife'. They don't give vows of everlasting love under candlelight, in beds with rose petals. They are not cute.They tend to fart, burp and curse as much as any man does when in the company of other men. They don't comb each other's hair or put flowers in it. And they most certainly don't have cocks of eight, nine and ten inches each. Pretty please. Have mercy. If you think that gay erotica is about substituting Snow White with a second Prince Charming, then you need to learn the ropes. And while you're at it try taking a wrist thick, eight inches dick up the ass and then we'll discuss about how easy it is.

I have gay men in my circle of friends and acquaintances. Sometimes I had had to ask them some very awkward questions concerning how they practice and experience sex. And I love to read gay erotica written by men. There is a multitude of feelings and sensations I cannot describe or convey. There's something purely hormonal, animalistic and raw about the way they experience sex and attraction. Something urgent, straightforward, bordering on the violent. They are not attracted to the same things a woman would be attracted when she ogles a man. I personally don't know any woman that would find tufts of armpit hairs sticking out an exciting sight. I also don't know of any women who would enjoy licking them. Most women would not blatantly admit to enjoy rimming. (Licking  and probing with your tongue your partner's anus). Probably some do, but how many chances are there to come across a scene of a woman rimming her male partner in mainstream erotica? Slim to none, methinks. And this is why most m/m erotica written by women just doesn't work. Perhaps it will get another woman horny, but not a gay man. Which is neither good or bad. It just is.

With that said and done, let's see how I'll fare in that particular field. Hehe. I am really curious... But all in due time.

What to say, how to explain, who cares.

After spending a whole month struggling with two chapters, I wrote two more in the last week/ ten days. 

The very last one is death and despair. Which is good. It reminds me of what writing should be about. A good kick in the behind. Reading can be pleasant, informative, a way to kill time and all that. But sometimes, just sometimes, reading should be about as pleasant as a hand gripping your heart and squeezing it, then throwing the remaining meat to the crows. To hell with pleasant reading and my pleasant ass. There are vampires in there, not smurfs or care bears. And there is death, madness, despair, and the knowledge that no matter how long you may live, some things will not leave you, or be forgotten. They'll stay.

"If you ask me why bad things happen to people who don't deserve them, I'll tell you I don't know. I never figured that one out. Perhaps there is no why. Am I sorry about everything I did to you? Of course I am. But if I met you tomorrow, I'd do the same all over again. I can't help it. I just can't."

I can also refer to the fact there are two new erotica pieces in my arsenal. One finished two days ago, one finished about half a month ago. Both male/ male. I don't know what I am supposed to do with them except read them and feel horny, which is why they were written in the first place. But other than that... The gay couple I know can't read my English to give those pieces to them. :( I think they'd enjoy them. I think after everything is said and done, gay people will give me a medal of honour. Or something. But nothing is said or done yet.

Well, there is always my homophobic friend who's really eager to read the next chapters of my story, and he has a surprise in store for him in chapters 24 and 25. That should teach him to make strange comments whenever I upload feminine men in my facebook photos.

We walk by faith and not by sight

And I walk with my eyes shut, feeling the way. I write and pray, pray and write. I have no idea what's getting out of me anymore. I just write. I try to capture in words the essence of feelings and faith. The food of gods. Feelings and faith.

I don't know where this is going. I am guided by my sense of touch. I let my mind struggle with the riddle of plot non-stop, asking questions, trying to piece together scenes, information, characters, reactions. My other part does nothing of the sort. It opens the trapdoor in the attic, extends its arm in the Collective, grabs and brings down material. It pulls down whatever it can get its fingers on. It downloads feelings, colours, fleeting images, landscapes, sounds, sensations. It's like watching a chimera giving birth. I have no idea what that writhing bundle of colours that I pulled out is. I gently but firmly push my fingers in the ripples of colour, amongst feathers, fur, scales, and I push and pull, smooth out and unfold. The process is like an origami for a dragon tamer or a mythology hero. I have no idea what I am doing anymore, I just work with my fingers involving my rational thinking as little as possible. The rational part comes in later on, when I need to give the text a more accessible form.

When God made us to their image, we were made capable of creation. Male and female is merely another stupid restriction of this plane. Nothing more or less.

I am proud of this blog.

I really am. It started in 2005 and it has countless hours of work in it. It also has a large portion of my unusual ideas, mentality and emotional chaos. I am proud of it the same way I would be proud of my child, even if the neighbor had just appeared at my doorstep to tell me my child blackened the eye of their kid. I am sure most people don't like it. Then again, I don't like most people.

I got rid of massive amounts of unwanted items in the past few weeks. Humans amass such ridiculous quantities of useless things around them... And slowly those items become a part of the house, or library, or cupboard, and we don't even realise they are there. A friend brought me a large volume of her unwanted books, so I was 'forced' to once more go through MY books. Which was excellent initiative to see what else I can get rid of. Thankfully a lady I know does a bazaar around this time of the year for stray animals. She got a small mountain of unwanted books, most of which had been stored in another room than my own. She also got comic books in Greek. She sold them all and we're both happy.

As I went through my earthly possessions I realised I can't find two books I really love. The one is 'Master and Margarita' by Mikhail Bulgakov. The second is 'The perfume' by Patrick Suskind. I have the very bad  habit of lending books and other items which more often than not results in me losing them. So I added the books to my wishlist in amazon and slowly but steadily managed to gather another big pile of unwanted comics in Greek.Those will go to another friend. I re-read them and they are good, but not something I am interested in anymore.

The next thing I did was get on all fours. And stuck a cucumber... HaHAHAHAHAHHAAHAhaahahha you fell for it, didn't you? Nope, I stuck my head under the bed and pulled out a large cardboard box. In there I had my collection of (shriveled human heads. I wish.) stationery. I had started collecting it when I was around 12. I decided that after 23 years that I had all that paper in my possession it was time for it to go. I mean, I want to move abroad and stay there permanently. Having under my bed a box of papers that are more that 20 years old serves no logical purpose I can think of. Of course, I am still keeping my enormous kawaii stationery collection. There is no way I am giving that away!!! I am not bored of it yet.

Going through my old collection (full of flowery, dreamy landscapes, beautiful women, romantic themes and so on) I got a glimpse of what I was feeling back then. More than anything else, that state of mind was achieved by my sense of smell as those stationery sets are all aromatic, and smells are an express connection to the past. I had so many dreams back then. I still do and they are not realised. I never really expected my life to become like this. I don't think anyone ever does.

Yesterday as I was separating some papers to send them to a swapper I thought about vampires and wondered if they, too, hold onto objects. However, when you're made to outlive everything and anything that surrounds you, whether living or inanimate, it must be hard to be sentimental about objects. You cannot afford to be sentimental about people anymore, let alone objects. Besides, modern objects are not build to last. Clothes, gadgets, even jewellery in some cases last only for a season or two if they are expensive. In the old times, clothes lasted for twenty or thirty years and I have an ancient stereo thing that plays large rolls of tape. It belonged to my father and it's probably still working. I don't even know the name for that item. Not even in Greek, I mean. But it's working after the 40 odd years that we have it. Buy a sound system nowadays and see if it lasts longer that five. And it's not only the objects that are made to be cheap. The mentality is also different. I have had the same cellphone for the past three years. It's still working, so I see no reason to change it. If it breaks, I will. Until then, I am perfectly happy with it. It does not have a touch screen, internet or android. You press buttons and call people, or accept calls, or send messages. That's what a cellphone is supposed to do. It even has bluetooth connectivity and can get funny ringtones by my friends' mobiles. All my needs are covered. Most people nowadays stampede to get the latest iphone, ipad, imyass although they have the exact previous model. I could get in a long winding argument about how this mentality has screwed us and the planet over by making us buy with money we don't have (credit cards) gadgets we don't need at an outrageous price. Gadgets that cost 10-20 dollars to be made are sold 500 or 700 or more, and they are made in terrible factories that treat human beings like automatons. But no-one will listen because they are too busy playing with their new gadgets. So I won't say anything more.

Sometimes I hope the Earth will get Her Christmas wish granted and an extra terrestrial civilisation will come and spray the population with something that kills eejits only. And the rest of us will inherit the earth and their ipads too.

*grumblemoannag*

Fantastic, amazing, hilarious writing advice!!!

Kurt Vonnegut’s 8 Tips on How to Write a Great Story

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things — reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them-in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To hell with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

Taken from here:

http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/04/03/kurt-vonnegut-on-writing-stories/ 

Fuck this.

I just came across a site that specialises in Vampire fiction.

http://www.lovevampires.com/index.htm

It gave five stars to Twilight. It's one of the most badly written, repetitive and less than mediocre books I have read in my life and that site gave it a solid five out of five review. No, wait. In fact I could not read it. No. I couldn't. I doubt I finished it. I think I just passed it on to another poor unfortunate soul, may God/dess have mercy on her.

Going through the site I discovered that there is a crapload of books in the vampire genre, by authors I have never heard in my life. It appears that there are more vampire's asses out there than there are vampires. It's scary and intimidating for someone like me who writes an essentially vampire novel. I mean for crying out loud. My vampires are not mysterious strangers that chuckle softly to themselves from the shadows of their dark castle. No, one of them appears with a mop in hand in the very first chapters. Another starts crying because he's so upset that he can't help it. The third has been used as a punching bag for so many years by his progenitor that has developed the psychology of a lifer in prison. He pussyfoots around everything and anything and tries to be invisible most of the time. How's that for dark and mysterious strangers? No?

Look, I am a woman. I can't help being romantic. But there is romantic and romantic. Most people believe romantic is dinner in a candlelit restaurant. I have very different ideas on it. And there is one very important element that does NOT mix with a romantic outlook. Realism. Realism and romanticism just don't get along. I am first and foremost trying to write a book that has a strong, realistic core to the degree this is possible since we're talking about vampires. I don't want black and white characters and I most certainly don't want caricatures or stereotypes. So if someone has to mop in the house of a very paranoid and misanthropic vampire then this someone is the vampire himself. I don't know who mops in the houses of all those other vampire characters. I suppose that unless they live in a sewer or a burrow someone DOES mop the house. :) So bite me.

I think I must invite all my male hesitant emo characters in one gathering and let them pat each others' backs for several hours and nag to their heart's content. Even if I turned that meeting alone in a book it would probably make a better read than Twilight.

And as I said before, bite me.

The parade of bitches

And I was worried that there are not enough women in my novel. Yeah, right. And suddenly, KABOOM! women everywhere. And not just your garden variety woman. No no no. Until now all of them smart, interesting, powerful individuals, the kind of woman that will not mince her words when something annoys her, the kind of woman I would be proud to see around. Fierce ladies, powerful protectors, as dangerous as the male heroes if not more. And very sexual too. I am impressed by myself.

I don't want this novel to be gay erotica. I could target that niche in literature, but it's too narrow. I don't want to limit my scope and audience and first and foremost I don't want to limit my heroes in their choices. There are male/ male couples in there, but also male/ female and female/ female. Why the hell not? Variety is good and life is fantastically unpredictable. Why be a stereotype when you can have it all? Why NOT have it all? If you can handle it, go for the sky and don't stop there either.

I am really curious as to HOW others will react to this book, if I manage to get it published. But that's not something I must worry about it now. Right now I have a plot detail to take care of. Praise and curses will follow at some other point. Work, bitch. Work your ass off and the rest will follow. Work like there is no tomorrow.

Ahhhh... My ass hurts from so much self- flagellation. But oh well. :)

With my nose inside a book

I finished with chapters ten and eleven. I feel exhausted. I have been working on them for the past two weeks or so. I tend to treat every chapter like it is a short story. There is a beginning, a middle and an end. Every chapter is a scene, full and separate than the rest, each scene following the previous and preparing the next, but at the same time as complete and independent as possible. At least to the best of my ability.

Internet is so slow that I find myself barking with rage every time I try to watch a youtube video. There are so many things that go wrong, but I must not focus on what is wrong but on what is right. If I focus on what's wrong I am fucked. There are always occurrences and conditions that are not to my liking. No need to make them my exclusive reality and constantly feed them with my attention. I should just focus on my job, and my present job is writing.

I am listening to game soundtracks from youtube. Perfect music for writing. It is one of the reasons I am angry with how slow internet is. Two examples:

Assassin's Creed 2 Soundtrack

Mass Effect 2 Soundtrack

I am also reading Lunatic Cafe by Laurell K. Hamilton. I don't know if 'reading' is the right characterisation for this combination of sighing, cursing, suppressing my impulse to throw the book out of the window as well as reading it. The protagonist is a perfect example of the bad stereotype of a young American woman. If she was blonde and stupid as well she would be THE example of a young American woman. Prudish (no sex before marriage), self-righteous, stubborn, uncaring as to how her actions affect others as long as she feels that things go her way, and above all a "good girl". I want to slap her silly and kick her senseless. Character development? What's that then? Is it really necessary? And it's a pity because the writing style is effortless, but it remains to just that. It never takes off.

I am not joking when I said that I write in order to have a  book to read. I cannot find good books to read on the vampire genre anymore. I am bored. I want something different. I am sick of cliches, sick of all the stereotypes. I want to explore the sensual and sexual side of the vampire in more than the bad male vampire/ innocent female victim relationship. I want all kinds of sex in there. Gay, straight and bisexual, vanilla, kinky and bloodbath. I want characters with motivations and fears. I am sick of the books I find. And with extra pride I want to refer to the fact a friend of mine who's a homophobic read a chapter with violent gay sex and he did not even realise until it was too late. This means I managed to achieve my target, which is, STORYTELLING. Sucking you into the story, not letting you realise what's going on, rendering you incapable to stop until you have read it. And even after reading it, be just too absorbed  to care. I patted myself on the back for that. Well done. All this bleeding my head over a computer screen and a keyboard has paid off. Thank you, Elizabeth. Well done.

WRITING.

I am writing.

I am constipated, have discovered an impressive cavity in my (last) wisdom tooth, the floor of my room has absorbed moisture and the wood has expanded and I cannot close the door and the other laptop is dead and I am writing like mad.

I am reading a book and yesterday spent a quarter of an hour yelling comments and observations out loud to no-one in particular. You can read them for your pleasure (?) here:

"I mean what the fuck, fucking hell fuck, I am struggling with every available braincell to make this appear gradual, I am torturing my heads (the one I have on my shoulders, and several others in the refrigerator, I mean obviously, why else use plural here) in order to be smooth, smooth gods god dammit, gradual, you know, not like we've only just met and BOOOM! sex, and this is what gets published, I don't even know why I struggle with my craft, and erase all the repeated words, and bury my fucking nose in two different dictionaries and one thesaurus if I cannot come up with the word I am looking for, and re-write the same chapter again and again and again to make the flow of the story natural and effortless, for the love of holy fuck, put some effort into your writing, hell yes I want to read sex, hell no like this. This is not sex but microwave popcorn, just add microwave. I mean save me a fried Godzilla for later, and if I just wanted to write about sex and no plot I would write the words cock, pussy (or ass), in, out, in out, in out, in, out, boobies jumping up and down, moan, moan moan, sigh, !SUDDENLY! Jizz everywhere! Who cares???"

(I am not sure what people think when they see me during one of those live-comment broadcasts of insanity. I wave my hands dramatically as well and make faces and noises. I am not sure if the best way to do this is radio, camera or a padded cell.)

~~~!!!WRITING< WRITING< WRITING< LALALA< WRITING< WRITING< WRITING!!!~~~

This is the point where the writing starts to take off the ground. Until now I wasn't even sure what was happening. I never use a plot. I have a very general idea of what it is about and then just throw all the characters in and wait to see what will happen. Stephen King does the exact same thing. So I threw everyone in together with everyone else and I kept looking at the progress. (It mostly consisted of characters telling other characters off at first or batting at their faces like annoyed cats. Most of my characters aren't the get along easily/ the more the merrier type.) And for the first time I start realising this is GOING somewhere and I think I have a very vague idea WHERE. The two basic characters are in, the third one must be introduced now. Just after I finish with the chapters with the second character. Vampires with special needs, violent sex, crude language, a masochistic psychic and murderous twins. Not bad. Now everything will start flooding in. It will be something of a shaggathon, vampire novel, suspense/ horror/ romance kind of book. Now, don't you dare tell me there are no such books! I know there aren't! This is why I am writing mine. Silly, silly boys and girls, but of course. I first and foremost write in order to have something to read!!! Silly. It's like masturbation, only with more people watching. BWA HA HAHA HASSSAAAAAN HERE I COME!!! Eat my dust and shit fucking troglodytes of shit books. I am going at almost full speed now. Or to quote Luciphur from Poison Elves,

EAT CROW!!!

I love you all. Smooch!

I go write now. Open your umbrellas, jizz is coming. *O*

Writing again...

It is more than welcome, although it comes out in an unusual way. Old characters are re-introduced in my head and sometimes I am not sure to what direction they mean to go or what they want to say. Aubrey is back, George and William are back (secondary characters, total cutthroats but very interesting) and Sergios is also back. Edward, Aubrey's "father" is also re-introduced. I am trying to listen to what they have to say. It's not always easy. I think I know them but I don't really know them anymore. They have changed since 2003 that I began writing their stories. I still have the old stories but cannot use them, they are not valid anymore. And I had done such a good job back then, at least plot-wise. But I should not fret. The plot will be better now because I am a better writer. And there is total freedom concerning what I can do. That world is mine, the characters are mine, and I can even introduce characters from other stories since they all live in that same world. It's a matter of finding my rhythm again, and getting re-acquainted with the characters.

(I am sure this entry will bore people to tears, but it's OK. I never made the blog for other people to begin with.)

I wonder what will happen to this blog if I ever manage to get my stories published. I will probably have to disassociate it from my name. What joy.

Speaking of names, I am trying to find a pseudonym for me. I like Elizabeth, but Vasilaki is not exactly the easiest surname. Any ideas? I am trying to avoid the too obvious ones like "Desdemona Ravencrow" and "Lucretia Deathrain". (Or as a friend said: "Petronella Deathpanties". xD) I want it to sound like a surname that does exist, but a tiny pun would not be unwelcome. At the same time it needs to be small as Elizabeth is four syllables long. 

If I don't manage to come with any good ideas I'll just keep "V-" as it brings to my mind a lot of pleasant associations (V for Vendetta, vampire, the Latin number 5 -which is my number- and V, as in vampire blood from True Blood).

Right. Off I go to write. Be more interesting than poor ol' me, as I am too busy to do anything more interesting right now.

Dominic

Your father never allowed you to learn the violin. "You will not," he had said, his voice dripping scorn, "learn to play that thing. My son will not play that which amuses drunkards and lowlifes in village fairs." And you had to obey, because when you didn't, he wasn't shy about making you hurt in dozens of places with his hands or his belt. So you, the marquis's son, never learned it. You never touched the instrument the relatives on your gypsy mother's side played with such skill that made it sound like a weeping human heart, or a banshee, or a storm over the distant mountains. You learned to play the piano instead. And you also learned to drive your father crazy, to laugh at his face, and weave magic with nothing but spit and a mumbled curse, while your father pored over heavy tomes written in obscure Latin and badly copied Greek.

And you grew up to become fearsome.

And you grew old, much older than any human possibly could, though your visage did not reveal it, and still you never learned to play the violin.

And one day she came into your life.

And for the first time in your very long years you found yourself yelling just like your father had. Setting rules that she broke with a laugh and ample defiance. Chasing her inside your mansion of a house swearing to God you'd strangle that brat even if it was the last thing you'd ever do. You found yourself angry again, your temper flaring. You remembered what it was like to drive someone crazy, but this time you were at the receiving end. You found yourself ambushed, surprised, made fun of.

I think this is when you actually understood and forgave your father.

And it must have been then that you realised for the first time that you never did learn the violin, not even when your father was gone. Because she had the guts to pose the question.

Will you learn it now? Or you think you're too old and tired for that, for learning to touch a new beloved when your fingers run the piano keys with such skill that make it sound like a weeping human heart, or a banshee, or a storm over the distant mountains?

I love you so much.

All those people that came to inhabit my head over the years and tell me their stories, or allowed me to see fragments.

I love you so much.

You are what will be left of me when my time comes.

“The blazing fire makes flames and brightness out of everything thrown into it.”
― Marcus Aurelius

Seraph

Today is the first day my face in the mirror looks familiar again. I haven't a clue why.

I saw you in my sleep last night. 

It's funny how I see you in my sleep while we don't talk in real life. You were wearing a light blue suit that shined at parts with an almost satin sheen. I am guessing that it was the tie, or the shirt that shined. This time you looked like your usual self. And blue looked good on you, although I have never seen you wearing it. 

Damned fairies. Damned race of alcoholic, sex addicted, heartless, whimsical nutters. Nothing but trouble and heartache. It's all about your glamour and conquests. I am guessing most of you die of liver failure or drug overdose, and those who don't just carry some kind of STD to their dying day. But I forgot; you're a lucky bunch of arseholes. You manage to avoid disease most of the time even if you're not particularly careful.

I would so spank them collectively. Using planks. Or better big clubs and flattening their stupid heads.

Talking about fairies, the character I would mostly like to BE (from my own ones) is Seraph. Seraph has a fairy soul, but not the "drink and make merry" type, but rather the "kill and fuck mercilessly" type. He's Irish, 6'3'' (1, 93m), long coal black hair, gray blue, almost silvery eyes, very pale skin, lots of blue black tattoos, and also a real piece of work. A brooding, misanthropic, nearly growling young man, presently in University, who's about as amused with humanity as I am, but not really interested in censoring his mouth if you aggravate him. What are you going to do, hit him? You can try. He's been trained to kill vampires since he was practically a child. He has even killed a few. Come on, try. Give it your best shot. The doctors will have such a good time re-arranging your bones afterwards. Like playing Tetris but with no visible bricks. Thankfully Seraph looks like someone that it's NOT in your best interests to annoy. Most people instinctively know he can break them in two. Even bullies shrink away from him, and those who don't are usually used as an example for others, and offer quality time to doctors and physiotherapists (practicing the medical Tetris I described just now).

What I admire about Seraph is his willpower and self-discipline. He has been exercising since he was very little, partly because he needs to be in perfect physical condition for hunting and partly because regular exercise keeps his murderous and restless nature in check. He never questions what he is, never doubts what his responsibility is. He's quite content with his share. He's been brought up to kill vampires, period. Not all vampires. The ones that kill humans. You'd be surprised to know, perhaps, that most modern day vampires would rather not. You can't magic away a corpse, and leaving a trail of corpses behind you is guaranteed to attract the wrong kind of attention. Seraph takes care of those stupid enough or uncaring enough to do so.

Clichés I have tried to avoid: 

He's not a vampire. I mean, give me a break. Jesus wept.

He's not a loner because he has been heartbroken. He just happens to enjoy the company of his own self a lot more than that of other people. He never invests a lot in order to be heartbroken.

He's not misanthropic because he's old and disappointed. He is merely disillusioned. Has seen through the lies and appearances and social conventions and knows how petty and ugly most people are on the inside.

He does not kill vampires to protect humans. He doesn't like humans very much to begin with. No, his mind is far too complicated and different to see humans as 'good' and 'vampires' as bad. He strives to preserve the balance, because a vampire that habitually kills is a chaotic, disruptive, unchecked power. Still he's not obsessive. He's aware he cannot kill ALL wild vampires out there. He, too, is only human after all. At least his body is.

He does not kill for revenge. Another cliché. He never had any of his relatives or friends killed by a vampire. Hell, I am not sure if he even has any friends. He's pretty dispassionate about it all. Vampire hunting just happens to be his calling, and he enjoys doing it because he’s what he’s best at. 

In addition to the above, he can also kick seven shades of blue out of most people, armed with nothing but his stunning body and a grin. xD

I would love to be Seraph. Don't get me wrong, I love vampires. But give me a good body and many years of training to kill and a few bullies to practice on. Oh god yes. This would be orgasmic.

I go do something else now, before I soak my pants so thoroughly that my socks get wet too.