naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Maniacal Laughter)
Tonight was my writers' group Christmas party.

Our usual ritual involves a story fragment contest, where everyone brings a two page story fragment, they are all shuffled about, read, and then everyone tries to guess who wrote what. This is enormous fun, as the fragments are almost always hilarious. Tonight was no exception.

I have posted a previous fragment of mine, and one of Sargon's, before. Those were both deliberately bad. The one I wrote today was not nearly as painful, I promise.

This year's theme was "death of the mentor." I had a really hard time with this one, but at the last minute managed to bang out two and a quarter pages. Should you choose, you can read it below. I've cleaned it up a tiny bit, and though it isn't serious, as something committed in half an hour, I'm quite pleased with it.

So read! It has mad science, evil geniuses, a brain in a jar, and lots of obscure humor!

Read on for THE BRAIN OF PROFESSOR WASHBEETLE! )

See? Was that so bad? I kind of want to write about Lady Mondegreen, now, and Jenny Blackheart.

If you're lucky, Sargon will post his Dr. Tentacle fragment, which I think is funnier than mine. And if you ask really nicely, I will post my fragment from last year -- or his, which was probably the funniest thing either of us has ever written.

Until tomorrow. Or whenever I feel like posting again. Moving sucks.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Maniacal Laughter)
Tonight was my writers' group Christmas party.

Our usual ritual involves a story fragment contest, where everyone brings a two page story fragment, they are all shuffled about, read, and then everyone tries to guess who wrote what. This is enormous fun, as the fragments are almost always hilarious. Tonight was no exception.

I have posted a previous fragment of mine, and one of Sargon's, before. Those were both deliberately bad. The one I wrote today was not nearly as painful, I promise.

This year's theme was "death of the mentor." I had a really hard time with this one, but at the last minute managed to bang out two and a quarter pages. Should you choose, you can read it below. I've cleaned it up a tiny bit, and though it isn't serious, as something committed in half an hour, I'm quite pleased with it.

So read! It has mad science, evil geniuses, a brain in a jar, and lots of obscure humor!

Read on for THE BRAIN OF PROFESSOR WASHBEETLE! )

See? Was that so bad? I kind of want to write about Lady Mondegreen, now, and Jenny Blackheart.

If you're lucky, Sargon will post his Dr. Tentacle fragment, which I think is funnier than mine. And if you ask really nicely, I will post my fragment from last year -- or his, which was probably the funniest thing either of us has ever written.

Until tomorrow. Or whenever I feel like posting again. Moving sucks.
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
1) There was an OSFW meeting tonight. It went amazingly well. I got to know a couple of neat new folks better, which is always swell. I actually brought something and read it (not without threats and prodding) and people appeared genuinely interested. In case any of you are wondering, I hate reading -- not the reading aloud part, but the demanding people's attention part. I would feel just as awkward if someone else were reading it. Moreso, actually. Anyway, I am newly inspired to work on the project.

2) Is there a site that catalogs all the Smallville episodes in which Clark is grievously injured, cries, or is in any other way in photogenic pain? Or the ones in which he is physically restrained? Because if there is not, there should be, and I don't have time to do it. Alas. Tom Welling is so adorable. As I told Sargon earlier tonight, I'd eat him out of a bowl on the floor. He is just that yummy. Especially when he cries.

3) I got a honkin' huge box of skulls on Wednesday. Just pointing that out. As soon as it is no longer either one million degrees outside or raining (WTF, weather? Seriously, WTF?!) I will get pictures. In the meantime, I am pondering names for the new wolf skulls. If my calipers would just get here, I could measure them and maybe guess their gender. I think they are all male. One is bigger than Thane. Not by that much, but enough to be pretty scary.

4) I have an address for Tom Jane fan mail. I'm working on Tom Welling, Steven Strait, Michaels Sheen and Weatherly, Tahmoh Penikett, Amber Benson, etc. There are going to be fan letters in the near future. The last one was such fun. Ioan never did answer me directly, but he did send me two signed pictures, presumably to get me to desist. I am wrestling with whether or not really goofy fan letters are actually beneath my dignity. I have to decide which I value more highly, embarrassing myself for the amusement of youall, or not coming across as a crazed stalker with a collection of left feet and a hat made of rat kidneys and actually, you know, maybe getting a response. I think I'm just traumatized by that fan letter I never did send to Heath Ledger. I am such a moron sometimes. When you love someone, you tell them how you feel, even if that means a restraining order.

5) Insomnia sucks SO HARD. I am serious, y'all. This is getting out of hand.
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
1) There was an OSFW meeting tonight. It went amazingly well. I got to know a couple of neat new folks better, which is always swell. I actually brought something and read it (not without threats and prodding) and people appeared genuinely interested. In case any of you are wondering, I hate reading -- not the reading aloud part, but the demanding people's attention part. I would feel just as awkward if someone else were reading it. Moreso, actually. Anyway, I am newly inspired to work on the project.

2) Is there a site that catalogs all the Smallville episodes in which Clark is grievously injured, cries, or is in any other way in photogenic pain? Or the ones in which he is physically restrained? Because if there is not, there should be, and I don't have time to do it. Alas. Tom Welling is so adorable. As I told Sargon earlier tonight, I'd eat him out of a bowl on the floor. He is just that yummy. Especially when he cries.

3) I got a honkin' huge box of skulls on Wednesday. Just pointing that out. As soon as it is no longer either one million degrees outside or raining (WTF, weather? Seriously, WTF?!) I will get pictures. In the meantime, I am pondering names for the new wolf skulls. If my calipers would just get here, I could measure them and maybe guess their gender. I think they are all male. One is bigger than Thane. Not by that much, but enough to be pretty scary.

4) I have an address for Tom Jane fan mail. I'm working on Tom Welling, Steven Strait, Michaels Sheen and Weatherly, Tahmoh Penikett, Amber Benson, etc. There are going to be fan letters in the near future. The last one was such fun. Ioan never did answer me directly, but he did send me two signed pictures, presumably to get me to desist. I am wrestling with whether or not really goofy fan letters are actually beneath my dignity. I have to decide which I value more highly, embarrassing myself for the amusement of youall, or not coming across as a crazed stalker with a collection of left feet and a hat made of rat kidneys and actually, you know, maybe getting a response. I think I'm just traumatized by that fan letter I never did send to Heath Ledger. I am such a moron sometimes. When you love someone, you tell them how you feel, even if that means a restraining order.

5) Insomnia sucks SO HARD. I am serious, y'all. This is getting out of hand.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Christmas Spartaaans!)
From the OSFW Christmas party, a small battery of pictures.

OSFW Christmas Party 03

Merry Christmas . . .

OSFW Christmas Party 02

. . . you FUCKERS!

That's me, [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, and [livejournal.com profile] apocalypticbob. Also known, apparently, as The Boob Brigade.

OSFW Christmas Party 01

Me and [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, we are silly.

And because it's been requested, pictures of my tit, and attendant piercing:

TIIIT! )

OSFW Christmas Party 04

And on that nicely pagan note, I shall leave you to get back to your day.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Christmas Spartaaans!)
From the OSFW Christmas party, a small battery of pictures.

OSFW Christmas Party 03

Merry Christmas . . .

OSFW Christmas Party 02

. . . you FUCKERS!

That's me, [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, and [livejournal.com profile] apocalypticbob. Also known, apparently, as The Boob Brigade.

OSFW Christmas Party 01

Me and [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, we are silly.

And because it's been requested, pictures of my tit, and attendant piercing:

TIIIT! )

OSFW Christmas Party 04

And on that nicely pagan note, I shall leave you to get back to your day.
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
Mme. President?!

That's me getting sworn in as President of the OSFW*. The Millennial Squirrel**, borne by Goodman Brown, presides over the changing of the guard.

Note, please, that I am cringing, because I had NO FREAKING IDEA he was about to bring out the Millennial Squirrel, and before I had a chance to steel myself, I was looking into his beady-eyed, yellow-toothed little face.

Now before you all start congratulating me, note that nobody actually wants to be president. We usually elect people who don't show up to the meeting.

They elected me to my face. I was right there. So was the new vice president. When they elected Sargon president, they at least had the decency to wait until he left the room to pee. I just answered a tiebreaking trivia question wrong.

I've been vice president before, by the way. I liked it because I could change my title to "Vice Mistress," which is swell. I'd like that on my business cards.

At any rate, my duties consist of calling meetings to order, asking the ritual questions, remembering the ritual questions, and presiding over mud-wrestling to see who gets to read on occasions where (AHEM) anyone actually brings anything to read.

Gentles, it's an honor. You do realize you have elected a pornographer and known pervert, right?

Anyway, I plan on abusing my powers while I'm in office, so you'll all be relieved to know that not much has changed.

In other news, I will wrap up my latest painting project tomorrow, so there will be pictures next week. This one is long overdue, but once the intended recipient has hopefully decided it was worth the shamefully long wait, you may all feel free to agree with her, because that's when I can show it off.

Once it's done, I'll be working on stuff for myself until and unless someone asks me to do something for them. Expect to hear lots of art babbling as I prepare to knock the ever-loving shit out of this year.

I have to go, but not before I leave you with some random bits of detritus:

Awesome Spam Names of the Week:

Savanna Ransom
Beowulf Shepherd
Samson Sharpe
Rosy Slaughter
Lughaidh Beer
and
Victoria V. Day

Coming out of the LJ Closet:

[livejournal.com profile] sargon999 is exactly who you think it is.***

Quote of the day:

"Nothing is quite as alarming as unexpected taxidermy."

* Oklahoma Science Fiction Writers' Association. Or the Obdurate Seekers of the Faraway West.

** Sciurus carolinensis nitre nitre. Yes, he is a taxidermied gray squirrel bearing a rifle.

*** Think of this as my pre-movie disclaimer where I say that the views expressed in his journal do not reflect the views of Naamah Darling Inc. Unless your gates open the wrong fucking way or you are an insufferable twat, in which case, I totally agree with him.
naamah_darling: The Punisher skull with a red ribbon barrette. (Punisher Ribbon)
Mme. President?!

That's me getting sworn in as President of the OSFW*. The Millennial Squirrel**, borne by Goodman Brown, presides over the changing of the guard.

Note, please, that I am cringing, because I had NO FREAKING IDEA he was about to bring out the Millennial Squirrel, and before I had a chance to steel myself, I was looking into his beady-eyed, yellow-toothed little face.

Now before you all start congratulating me, note that nobody actually wants to be president. We usually elect people who don't show up to the meeting.

They elected me to my face. I was right there. So was the new vice president. When they elected Sargon president, they at least had the decency to wait until he left the room to pee. I just answered a tiebreaking trivia question wrong.

I've been vice president before, by the way. I liked it because I could change my title to "Vice Mistress," which is swell. I'd like that on my business cards.

At any rate, my duties consist of calling meetings to order, asking the ritual questions, remembering the ritual questions, and presiding over mud-wrestling to see who gets to read on occasions where (AHEM) anyone actually brings anything to read.

Gentles, it's an honor. You do realize you have elected a pornographer and known pervert, right?

Anyway, I plan on abusing my powers while I'm in office, so you'll all be relieved to know that not much has changed.

In other news, I will wrap up my latest painting project tomorrow, so there will be pictures next week. This one is long overdue, but once the intended recipient has hopefully decided it was worth the shamefully long wait, you may all feel free to agree with her, because that's when I can show it off.

Once it's done, I'll be working on stuff for myself until and unless someone asks me to do something for them. Expect to hear lots of art babbling as I prepare to knock the ever-loving shit out of this year.

I have to go, but not before I leave you with some random bits of detritus:

Awesome Spam Names of the Week:

Savanna Ransom
Beowulf Shepherd
Samson Sharpe
Rosy Slaughter
Lughaidh Beer
and
Victoria V. Day

Coming out of the LJ Closet:

[livejournal.com profile] sargon999 is exactly who you think it is.***

Quote of the day:

"Nothing is quite as alarming as unexpected taxidermy."

* Oklahoma Science Fiction Writers' Association. Or the Obdurate Seekers of the Faraway West.

** Sciurus carolinensis nitre nitre. Yes, he is a taxidermied gray squirrel bearing a rifle.

*** Think of this as my pre-movie disclaimer where I say that the views expressed in his journal do not reflect the views of Naamah Darling Inc. Unless your gates open the wrong fucking way or you are an insufferable twat, in which case, I totally agree with him.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Christmas Lucian)
Made spice cookies Saturday and took them to the writers' group Christmas party, where they promptly all vanished. I guess that means that the black pepper I put in there was a success. I had a massive sugar hangover yesterday, though, and felt like shit until about two hours before bed.

I still managed to finish out several projects yesterday, one of which is the Yule card design. It's beautiful and weird. I'm only mailing about a quarter the usual number this year; these are in color and more of a pain to produce. I'll post the design once everyone who's getting one has gotten theirs. Unfortunately, that may be delayed a couple of days. The nice photo paper I got to print them on is festooned with the fucking Kodak logo on the back, making it unsuitable for card purposes. Of course, I only noticed this after printing out six of the fuckers.

Today, it's mailing out packages, swearing a lot, and working my ass off on the last project I have to complete before year's end. Everything is going so slow, so slow. I should be working more, but I'm just flat-out exhausted. There isn't any giddyup left. At this rate, I may take a couple of months off in the beginning of 2007 just to get some work in for myself. The last thing I painted for me I painted back in June, I think. That's ridiculous.

But, hell, that's the Christmas season for you. Busy! This week is all the mailing and the rushing about and the hating of everything and its dog -- remember I said I like people for three weeks out of each year? This is the week in December where I don't like anybody, because I'm too busy to properly wipe my own ass.

There are a ton of things I keep meaning to post about, but I'll be damned if I can remember what any of them are, so I'll cut this short and come back to ramble later.

Right now: photographs of some stuff I finished up today, and more work on the big long-term commission. And a trip to the post office, and a trip to the craft store, and feeding some snakes, and doing two loads of laundry plus bedding, and cooking, and cleaning the kitchen, and making phone calls, and. . . .
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Christmas Lucian)
Made spice cookies Saturday and took them to the writers' group Christmas party, where they promptly all vanished. I guess that means that the black pepper I put in there was a success. I had a massive sugar hangover yesterday, though, and felt like shit until about two hours before bed.

I still managed to finish out several projects yesterday, one of which is the Yule card design. It's beautiful and weird. I'm only mailing about a quarter the usual number this year; these are in color and more of a pain to produce. I'll post the design once everyone who's getting one has gotten theirs. Unfortunately, that may be delayed a couple of days. The nice photo paper I got to print them on is festooned with the fucking Kodak logo on the back, making it unsuitable for card purposes. Of course, I only noticed this after printing out six of the fuckers.

Today, it's mailing out packages, swearing a lot, and working my ass off on the last project I have to complete before year's end. Everything is going so slow, so slow. I should be working more, but I'm just flat-out exhausted. There isn't any giddyup left. At this rate, I may take a couple of months off in the beginning of 2007 just to get some work in for myself. The last thing I painted for me I painted back in June, I think. That's ridiculous.

But, hell, that's the Christmas season for you. Busy! This week is all the mailing and the rushing about and the hating of everything and its dog -- remember I said I like people for three weeks out of each year? This is the week in December where I don't like anybody, because I'm too busy to properly wipe my own ass.

There are a ton of things I keep meaning to post about, but I'll be damned if I can remember what any of them are, so I'll cut this short and come back to ramble later.

Right now: photographs of some stuff I finished up today, and more work on the big long-term commission. And a trip to the post office, and a trip to the craft store, and feeding some snakes, and doing two loads of laundry plus bedding, and cooking, and cleaning the kitchen, and making phone calls, and. . . .

WritR.

Nov. 10th, 2006 04:22 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Tootsie Pops!)
Time for the monthly writer's meeting tonight. In honor, I present Ten Things About Writing. Random thoughts and tidbits, culled from several comments and threads I've been pursuing lately.

I wax snarky toward the end, but it's nothing personal to you lot.

Random thoughts about pornographers, fanfiction, antidepressants, and wombat gizzards below! )

So from here on out, my boilerplate advice about getting published is:

Sacrifice a black cockerel over your manuscript at midnight on the dark of the moon. Bury that copy of the manuscript under a dead man's tree. Print a clean copy and let the envelope sit under the cockerel's dried foot overnight on a full moon. Send that clean copy to the editor.

Do not include the foot, because you can use it again for all subsequent copies of that manuscript.


Here endeth the lesson.

WritR.

Nov. 10th, 2006 04:22 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Tootsie Pops!)
Time for the monthly writer's meeting tonight. In honor, I present Ten Things About Writing. Random thoughts and tidbits, culled from several comments and threads I've been pursuing lately.

I wax snarky toward the end, but it's nothing personal to you lot.

Random thoughts about pornographers, fanfiction, antidepressants, and wombat gizzards below! )

So from here on out, my boilerplate advice about getting published is:

Sacrifice a black cockerel over your manuscript at midnight on the dark of the moon. Bury that copy of the manuscript under a dead man's tree. Print a clean copy and let the envelope sit under the cockerel's dried foot overnight on a full moon. Send that clean copy to the editor.

Do not include the foot, because you can use it again for all subsequent copies of that manuscript.


Here endeth the lesson.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Word count as of this morning: 31,018.

That's sixty percent done. I'll make you look at the word meter later. Because I'm a sadist like that.

Aaand in other news, Friday was the monthly convocation of geeks and gluttony. I was bitching about the cons of not being able to read aloud, but I feel obligated at this point to remind everyone that there are pros as well; the biggest one is that sometimes, just sometimes, you get to hear some really first-rate stories. And everything read on Friday was a heck of a lot of fun. The kind of night that makes me glad I didn't bring anything.

And on Friday, [livejournal.com profile] spacezombie contributed to the downfall of Western Civilization by providing me with a tool for evil: our Christmas present. A region-free DVD player that can also make sense out of video clips and mp3s. My gratitude will have a high body count, I guarantee it.

I can now play all my internet porn clips on my TV, AHAHAHAHA!!!, and FINALLY watch my prized pirate copies of that Tarzan show with Travis Fimmel that got canceled after only 8 episodes. I have yet to determine if it was a good show or a bad show. I couldn't tell you if he can act. I'm too busy looking at him and wondering how the fuck someone so seraphically gorgeous can possibly be a member of the same species as, say, Nicholas Cage, who looks like his DNA has been combined with that of a katydid.

Anyway, this is all to [livejournal.com profile] spacezombie's advantage, as the longer I spend in front of the TV the faster I will be done with his birthday present. Which I hope he likes, because I think it's pretty damn cool, myself.

So, yes, I spent this weekend in an orgy of Brisco County, Jr. and Justice League episodes, with a heaping topper of Ioan Gruffudd. Yeeeah. Guess what came in the mail last week, prompting gusty shrieks of delight? The Horatio Hornblower super-duper-extreme-ultra-special edition boxed set, complete with *dies* interview footage where he's making no effort to suppress his Welsh accent.

This is the part where I fangirl relentlessly. )

I think I'm done fangirling now, though I could be wrong.

I keep promising BPAL reviews and I will put them up, I've just been re-testing a few scents to see what I think of them on a second run. It's amazing how complex perfumery is. Often I'll get a sniff of something and have no idea what it is I'm smelling, or how to describe it. I have to go rooting around, trying to ferret out individual notes. It's wild.

I will profess an undying (heh) love for Zombi, as well as major, major lust for Iago. I see big bottles of both of those in my future, unless I find another rose blend I like better, or something else leather-based that flips my skirt up. Morocco, Scherezade, and The Lion are also beautiful, in a spicy/amber sort of way.

Anyway, enough of my blather. I threatened you with it, so here it is. Behold my word meter.

Zokutou word meterZokutou word meter
31,018 / 50,000
(62.0%)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Word count as of this morning: 31,018.

That's sixty percent done. I'll make you look at the word meter later. Because I'm a sadist like that.

Aaand in other news, Friday was the monthly convocation of geeks and gluttony. I was bitching about the cons of not being able to read aloud, but I feel obligated at this point to remind everyone that there are pros as well; the biggest one is that sometimes, just sometimes, you get to hear some really first-rate stories. And everything read on Friday was a heck of a lot of fun. The kind of night that makes me glad I didn't bring anything.

And on Friday, [livejournal.com profile] spacezombie contributed to the downfall of Western Civilization by providing me with a tool for evil: our Christmas present. A region-free DVD player that can also make sense out of video clips and mp3s. My gratitude will have a high body count, I guarantee it.

I can now play all my internet porn clips on my TV, AHAHAHAHA!!!, and FINALLY watch my prized pirate copies of that Tarzan show with Travis Fimmel that got canceled after only 8 episodes. I have yet to determine if it was a good show or a bad show. I couldn't tell you if he can act. I'm too busy looking at him and wondering how the fuck someone so seraphically gorgeous can possibly be a member of the same species as, say, Nicholas Cage, who looks like his DNA has been combined with that of a katydid.

Anyway, this is all to [livejournal.com profile] spacezombie's advantage, as the longer I spend in front of the TV the faster I will be done with his birthday present. Which I hope he likes, because I think it's pretty damn cool, myself.

So, yes, I spent this weekend in an orgy of Brisco County, Jr. and Justice League episodes, with a heaping topper of Ioan Gruffudd. Yeeeah. Guess what came in the mail last week, prompting gusty shrieks of delight? The Horatio Hornblower super-duper-extreme-ultra-special edition boxed set, complete with *dies* interview footage where he's making no effort to suppress his Welsh accent.

This is the part where I fangirl relentlessly. )

I think I'm done fangirling now, though I could be wrong.

I keep promising BPAL reviews and I will put them up, I've just been re-testing a few scents to see what I think of them on a second run. It's amazing how complex perfumery is. Often I'll get a sniff of something and have no idea what it is I'm smelling, or how to describe it. I have to go rooting around, trying to ferret out individual notes. It's wild.

I will profess an undying (heh) love for Zombi, as well as major, major lust for Iago. I see big bottles of both of those in my future, unless I find another rose blend I like better, or something else leather-based that flips my skirt up. Morocco, Scherezade, and The Lion are also beautiful, in a spicy/amber sort of way.

Anyway, enough of my blather. I threatened you with it, so here it is. Behold my word meter.

Zokutou word meterZokutou word meter
31,018 / 50,000
(62.0%)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (NaNo Monkeys)
Yes, tomorrow is the monthly night of lies and snacking for the brave members of the OSFW.

You know, there is only one downside of having both A) an unquenchable lust to write really shitty porn and occasional quality erotica and B) a writers' group where we regularly gather to share excerpts of our work.

I can't read aloud. A full 98% of what I write is gratuitous porn, and the non-porny parts are still cheesy and overwrought as all get-out. There's the non-porn pulp adventure, but I always get halfway through reading a chapter and feel like everyone hates it. Besides. What's the point of reading 1/24 of something when you'll never be able to work through the whole thing? So I haven't actually, you know, read anything in . . . a year? Longer? I feel all frustrated, and there really isn't a solution for it except A) reading anyway or B) shutting the hell up.

There's always C) write something that doesn't involve gangbangs, swordfights, and pirates with +10 vorpal paddles; but on a scale of one to ten where one rates a "Ha ha!" and ten merits dying of a fit, the idea of actually restraining myself (as opposed to having someone do it for me) is stupid enough to merit an eleven. So I'm going with B.

I just thought I should point out one of the few really shitty things about being a pornographer. Like when someone asks what you do, and you answer them honestly, and they look at you like you're some kind of freak. Like you're about to test out your latest idea on them, personally. Because all erotica writers, don't you know, write only about A) things they've done and B) people they know. Sometimes C) things they've done to people they know. Imagination? Never enters into the equation. We're drooling sex maniacs, every one of us, and the only thing keeping us from pinning random people down and performing freaky sexperiments on them are leash laws. And sometimes, not even that.

I sort-of apologize to everyone for not posting more often the past two weeks. NaNo is really taking the skin off my pudding, if you know what I mean, and what's left is all formless and gooey and sort of evil-smelling. I'll be back to my normal bitchy, profane self once I've finished this horsefucker of a novel, and will hopefully have something intelligent to say besides "Plan? Zog no have plan!" I realize I've been horribly remiss with comments/email/dishes/grooming. I hope it takes the sting out to realize that, all life-drama bullshit aside, I've been having a really good time writing about my Mary Sue and my reluctant hero, and that's what really matters.

In brief life-drama bullshit update: family stuff was supposed to go down last week, with people coming in to see us and me going out to see other people. It got delayed until around Thanksgiving, which is a mixed blessing. I put off some things I wanted to do, thinking stuff was going to happen on a different, mythical schedule, which means I didn't get to do any of what I'd planned. On the other hand, I had the whole week free to do whatever else I wanted. And, gee, could I possibly vague that up for you any more?

Moving on, stay tuned for a whole swampload of BPAL reviews -- because this is my journal and I can inflict all kinds of weird shit on you without excuse, warning, or apology. I've been dabbing and sniffing for days now, and have skin-tested a baker's dozen of tantalizing scents. So far, we have two that have made me beg for mercy -- one in an unspeakably good way, and one in a very, very, very bad way.

And until then, you can just stare at this little meter. Staaare at it. Ooooo! Isn't it pretty? Every one of those fracking words was a word laboriously dragged out of my ass on barbed wire. ADMIRE IT. They are perfect pearls, inspired by God himself. This is intelligent fucking design at work, people. Everyone else's novels? Evolved from monkeys (see icon). Do they have talking foxes with better fashion sense than a highly-trained and coordinated team of gay Bohemian window-dressers? Hunky guard captains on blind dates from Hell? Mercenaries hung like mountain ponies? Perfectly-aimed cheese tarts? I don't think so.

Zokutou word meterZokutou word meter
23,422 / 50,000
(46.8%)


And a very happy birthday to [livejournal.com profile] kittyblue. =^_^=

I wish I had, you know, lots and lots of money, and could come all the way over there to take you to lunch where we would hire attractive male strippers to let us lick powdered chocolate from their pectoral muscles, but, alas, you'll have to settle for a silly dance from afar.

*hugs*
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (NaNo Monkeys)
Yes, tomorrow is the monthly night of lies and snacking for the brave members of the OSFW.

You know, there is only one downside of having both A) an unquenchable lust to write really shitty porn and occasional quality erotica and B) a writers' group where we regularly gather to share excerpts of our work.

I can't read aloud. A full 98% of what I write is gratuitous porn, and the non-porny parts are still cheesy and overwrought as all get-out. There's the non-porn pulp adventure, but I always get halfway through reading a chapter and feel like everyone hates it. Besides. What's the point of reading 1/24 of something when you'll never be able to work through the whole thing? So I haven't actually, you know, read anything in . . . a year? Longer? I feel all frustrated, and there really isn't a solution for it except A) reading anyway or B) shutting the hell up.

There's always C) write something that doesn't involve gangbangs, swordfights, and pirates with +10 vorpal paddles; but on a scale of one to ten where one rates a "Ha ha!" and ten merits dying of a fit, the idea of actually restraining myself (as opposed to having someone do it for me) is stupid enough to merit an eleven. So I'm going with B.

I just thought I should point out one of the few really shitty things about being a pornographer. Like when someone asks what you do, and you answer them honestly, and they look at you like you're some kind of freak. Like you're about to test out your latest idea on them, personally. Because all erotica writers, don't you know, write only about A) things they've done and B) people they know. Sometimes C) things they've done to people they know. Imagination? Never enters into the equation. We're drooling sex maniacs, every one of us, and the only thing keeping us from pinning random people down and performing freaky sexperiments on them are leash laws. And sometimes, not even that.

I sort-of apologize to everyone for not posting more often the past two weeks. NaNo is really taking the skin off my pudding, if you know what I mean, and what's left is all formless and gooey and sort of evil-smelling. I'll be back to my normal bitchy, profane self once I've finished this horsefucker of a novel, and will hopefully have something intelligent to say besides "Plan? Zog no have plan!" I realize I've been horribly remiss with comments/email/dishes/grooming. I hope it takes the sting out to realize that, all life-drama bullshit aside, I've been having a really good time writing about my Mary Sue and my reluctant hero, and that's what really matters.

In brief life-drama bullshit update: family stuff was supposed to go down last week, with people coming in to see us and me going out to see other people. It got delayed until around Thanksgiving, which is a mixed blessing. I put off some things I wanted to do, thinking stuff was going to happen on a different, mythical schedule, which means I didn't get to do any of what I'd planned. On the other hand, I had the whole week free to do whatever else I wanted. And, gee, could I possibly vague that up for you any more?

Moving on, stay tuned for a whole swampload of BPAL reviews -- because this is my journal and I can inflict all kinds of weird shit on you without excuse, warning, or apology. I've been dabbing and sniffing for days now, and have skin-tested a baker's dozen of tantalizing scents. So far, we have two that have made me beg for mercy -- one in an unspeakably good way, and one in a very, very, very bad way.

And until then, you can just stare at this little meter. Staaare at it. Ooooo! Isn't it pretty? Every one of those fracking words was a word laboriously dragged out of my ass on barbed wire. ADMIRE IT. They are perfect pearls, inspired by God himself. This is intelligent fucking design at work, people. Everyone else's novels? Evolved from monkeys (see icon). Do they have talking foxes with better fashion sense than a highly-trained and coordinated team of gay Bohemian window-dressers? Hunky guard captains on blind dates from Hell? Mercenaries hung like mountain ponies? Perfectly-aimed cheese tarts? I don't think so.

Zokutou word meterZokutou word meter
23,422 / 50,000
(46.8%)


And a very happy birthday to [livejournal.com profile] kittyblue. =^_^=

I wish I had, you know, lots and lots of money, and could come all the way over there to take you to lunch where we would hire attractive male strippers to let us lick powdered chocolate from their pectoral muscles, but, alas, you'll have to settle for a silly dance from afar.

*hugs*
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (LMAO)
Writers' barbecue tonight. I really, really, really wish that you all were here, because I always have a lot of fun when I get a little tipsy. Until I fall asleep in my husband's lap, only to wake up to a conversation about Star Wars slash fiction and naughty tentacles.

Seriously. Does the hypothyroidism affect one's metabolism to the point that one's sensitivity to alcohol skyrockets? I didn't even have half a glass -- or even a quarter glass -- of port, and suddenly I'm all "Ooo, this is sooo cool!" and "Ooo, boys!"

So I'm going to rant, while I'm still a little weird.

Why the fuck can't you people admit that you only like a movie because you want to fuck the people in it?!

Do not look me in the eye and tell me that movies like Troy and King Arthur are fucking Academy Award material, and that is why you like them. Bullshit. They are dressed up soap opera crap, with no structural integrity, historical accuracy, or emotional validity whatsoever. They are just there to be looked at. They're supposed to be pretty.

Admit it. You are looking at the boys, and thinking about how great they would look over your left shoulder. Or you are thinking about slashing them with one another. Paris/Achilles/Patroclus and Art/Gwen/Lance. Get a time machine in there, we can have Lance/Achilles slash. You people are only watching it for the eye candy.

It's okay to admit this. It's okay to admit that you love a mediocre movie, or even a shitty one, just because it's got someone in it that you would do in a heartbeat, even if it meant wearing a humiliating outfit. I'm a little tipsy, so I'm going to admit that I really like Dude, Where's My Car. Because Ashton is cute. No. I don't care how dumb he is, who he is/is not dating, or that he has one of the world's most unfortunate haircuts. I think he's nice to look at. Don't argue, I don't care who you think is yummier. That is not the issue.

And, guys, you are usually way cooler about this than chicks. You can admit that you only watch movies for the tits. And there's movies to gratify you. Low-budget movies where chicks with fake hooters the size of basketballs run around shooting vampire dinosaurs with homemade flamethrowers, singlehandedly saving civilization without even a shirt on their backs. There used to be more of these crappy movies back before tits became the new Big Evil, but now they're a dying breed, which is sad.

Thank God for movies like the Pierce Brosnan Bond movies, which provide both persuasions with something to look at. (That said, I want to go see Mr. and Mrs. Smith.)

We need to just admit it. That we only watched Titanic because of Billy Zane or Leonardo. And we need to quit giving our men shit for only going with us to look at Kate Winslet's epic tits. We need to admit that the only thing that would drag us into the theater for another goddamn battle epic was Orlando Bloom plus twenty pounds of meat. That we actually watch League of Extraordinary Gentlemen because old Sean Connery still has it, and damn if Dorian Gray didn't look biteable. Grrowl. That Brotherhood of the Wolf may have been painfully excessive, but redeems itself in Emelie Duquenne's stunning strawberry scrumptiousness, and Monica Belluci's utterly perfect nakiddity. That Hugh Jackman totally sold the first X-Men movie during the cage scene, with his grimy shoulders. It's okay.

I say that again. It's okay.

It's okay to like bad or mediocre movies and bad or mediocre actors based on shallow lust (I am not saying I believe every movie listed above is bad, so if you nitpick me, expect to be smacked).

Just 'fess up. Admit to liking a shitty movie just because of the hotness in it. Tell me what movie you love, that you know is crappy. I won't make fun of you -- and don't anyone else make fun of anyone else or I will bitchslap you and the person next to you.

Just tell me your guilty pleasure.

Go on.

Some of mine? The first (only) two seasons of Dark Angel on DVD. Michael Weatherly and Jessica Alba. The new Phantom of the Opera movie. Cruel Intentions, which is one of my most-watched movies ever, topped only by Knight's Tale. That's my shameful short list.

Now you know.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (LMAO)
Writers' barbecue tonight. I really, really, really wish that you all were here, because I always have a lot of fun when I get a little tipsy. Until I fall asleep in my husband's lap, only to wake up to a conversation about Star Wars slash fiction and naughty tentacles.

Seriously. Does the hypothyroidism affect one's metabolism to the point that one's sensitivity to alcohol skyrockets? I didn't even have half a glass -- or even a quarter glass -- of port, and suddenly I'm all "Ooo, this is sooo cool!" and "Ooo, boys!"

So I'm going to rant, while I'm still a little weird.

Why the fuck can't you people admit that you only like a movie because you want to fuck the people in it?!

Do not look me in the eye and tell me that movies like Troy and King Arthur are fucking Academy Award material, and that is why you like them. Bullshit. They are dressed up soap opera crap, with no structural integrity, historical accuracy, or emotional validity whatsoever. They are just there to be looked at. They're supposed to be pretty.

Admit it. You are looking at the boys, and thinking about how great they would look over your left shoulder. Or you are thinking about slashing them with one another. Paris/Achilles/Patroclus and Art/Gwen/Lance. Get a time machine in there, we can have Lance/Achilles slash. You people are only watching it for the eye candy.

It's okay to admit this. It's okay to admit that you love a mediocre movie, or even a shitty one, just because it's got someone in it that you would do in a heartbeat, even if it meant wearing a humiliating outfit. I'm a little tipsy, so I'm going to admit that I really like Dude, Where's My Car. Because Ashton is cute. No. I don't care how dumb he is, who he is/is not dating, or that he has one of the world's most unfortunate haircuts. I think he's nice to look at. Don't argue, I don't care who you think is yummier. That is not the issue.

And, guys, you are usually way cooler about this than chicks. You can admit that you only watch movies for the tits. And there's movies to gratify you. Low-budget movies where chicks with fake hooters the size of basketballs run around shooting vampire dinosaurs with homemade flamethrowers, singlehandedly saving civilization without even a shirt on their backs. There used to be more of these crappy movies back before tits became the new Big Evil, but now they're a dying breed, which is sad.

Thank God for movies like the Pierce Brosnan Bond movies, which provide both persuasions with something to look at. (That said, I want to go see Mr. and Mrs. Smith.)

We need to just admit it. That we only watched Titanic because of Billy Zane or Leonardo. And we need to quit giving our men shit for only going with us to look at Kate Winslet's epic tits. We need to admit that the only thing that would drag us into the theater for another goddamn battle epic was Orlando Bloom plus twenty pounds of meat. That we actually watch League of Extraordinary Gentlemen because old Sean Connery still has it, and damn if Dorian Gray didn't look biteable. Grrowl. That Brotherhood of the Wolf may have been painfully excessive, but redeems itself in Emelie Duquenne's stunning strawberry scrumptiousness, and Monica Belluci's utterly perfect nakiddity. That Hugh Jackman totally sold the first X-Men movie during the cage scene, with his grimy shoulders. It's okay.

I say that again. It's okay.

It's okay to like bad or mediocre movies and bad or mediocre actors based on shallow lust (I am not saying I believe every movie listed above is bad, so if you nitpick me, expect to be smacked).

Just 'fess up. Admit to liking a shitty movie just because of the hotness in it. Tell me what movie you love, that you know is crappy. I won't make fun of you -- and don't anyone else make fun of anyone else or I will bitchslap you and the person next to you.

Just tell me your guilty pleasure.

Go on.

Some of mine? The first (only) two seasons of Dark Angel on DVD. Michael Weatherly and Jessica Alba. The new Phantom of the Opera movie. Cruel Intentions, which is one of my most-watched movies ever, topped only by Knight's Tale. That's my shameful short list.

Now you know.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Tootsie Pops!)
See, now, I have to squee on myself. I owe a huge shout out to [livejournal.com profile] kittyblue and [livejournal.com profile] alienne for the packages I received yesterday. BIG packages. The mail lady had to make two trips.

OMG Chocolate!!! Pocky! Fish! Bunny bandanna! Stickers! Puppy! PRETTY KIMONO OVERCOAT THING! There was much spastic, fishtastic jumping in glee.

Prepare yourself, Generalissimo. There will be pictures. Oh, yes, there will be pictures. Just as soon as I've come off the chocolate high enough that the camera can catch me. I'm vibrating at Warp Speed.

And now I am the proud borrower/custodian of many comfort-fantasy books! Already halfway through Shadow, and deciding that I don't care what I think of it now, I like it anyway. I forgot I read the sequel once, too. Thank you for the generous loan, [livejournal.com profile] alienne! I'll have them back as soon as I can wolf them all down. If they go as fast as the chocolate, it won't take long.

I flail in delight. I now know how to fold a origami carp. I had Pocky. I walked around all day with a bright red rabbit bandanna on my head, and could only be induced to remove it to go to the writers' meeting last night by the threat of rain (and Sargon telling me that, all things considered, it didn't match the purple shirt). And I am even now blissfully sitting beside a stack of escapist fantasy, which has never been more sorely needed.

I would have publicly announced all this much earlier, but this is the first time I've been able to sit down without either fuming or having something else pressing to do (like fume). There was a writers' meeting last night, and then a great deal of melodramatic crap this morning, followed by blind, white-hot rage, which has still only cooled to red. (I got an answer from that cunt doctor, who has only proven that her head is lodged so far in her anal cavity that it would take a highly-trained team of four-armed aliens to remove it. I have never been so insulted in my life. She can go fuck herself with a rubber monkey dick.)

Eh. Possibly more on that later. I'm still too pissed to be articulate.

I'm also dead tired and have to try to get some sleep, since I only got 3 hours of sleep last night. Yeah. Check the time on my renfair pics post – when was the last time you saw me awake at that hour? That was just before I WENT TO BED. Hello, insomnia! And I'm one of those people who needs 10 hours a night or I get psychotic.

Goodnight, you crazy people. I'm going to try to preserve the single shred of sanity I have left by knocking back a few Z's.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Tootsie Pops!)
See, now, I have to squee on myself. I owe a huge shout out to [livejournal.com profile] kittyblue and [livejournal.com profile] alienne for the packages I received yesterday. BIG packages. The mail lady had to make two trips.

OMG Chocolate!!! Pocky! Fish! Bunny bandanna! Stickers! Puppy! PRETTY KIMONO OVERCOAT THING! There was much spastic, fishtastic jumping in glee.

Prepare yourself, Generalissimo. There will be pictures. Oh, yes, there will be pictures. Just as soon as I've come off the chocolate high enough that the camera can catch me. I'm vibrating at Warp Speed.

And now I am the proud borrower/custodian of many comfort-fantasy books! Already halfway through Shadow, and deciding that I don't care what I think of it now, I like it anyway. I forgot I read the sequel once, too. Thank you for the generous loan, [livejournal.com profile] alienne! I'll have them back as soon as I can wolf them all down. If they go as fast as the chocolate, it won't take long.

I flail in delight. I now know how to fold a origami carp. I had Pocky. I walked around all day with a bright red rabbit bandanna on my head, and could only be induced to remove it to go to the writers' meeting last night by the threat of rain (and Sargon telling me that, all things considered, it didn't match the purple shirt). And I am even now blissfully sitting beside a stack of escapist fantasy, which has never been more sorely needed.

I would have publicly announced all this much earlier, but this is the first time I've been able to sit down without either fuming or having something else pressing to do (like fume). There was a writers' meeting last night, and then a great deal of melodramatic crap this morning, followed by blind, white-hot rage, which has still only cooled to red. (I got an answer from that cunt doctor, who has only proven that her head is lodged so far in her anal cavity that it would take a highly-trained team of four-armed aliens to remove it. I have never been so insulted in my life. She can go fuck herself with a rubber monkey dick.)

Eh. Possibly more on that later. I'm still too pissed to be articulate.

I'm also dead tired and have to try to get some sleep, since I only got 3 hours of sleep last night. Yeah. Check the time on my renfair pics post – when was the last time you saw me awake at that hour? That was just before I WENT TO BED. Hello, insomnia! And I'm one of those people who needs 10 hours a night or I get psychotic.

Goodnight, you crazy people. I'm going to try to preserve the single shred of sanity I have left by knocking back a few Z's.

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