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This is number sixty-two in the blog series, “My Life in Erotica.” I encourage you to join my Patreon community to support my writing.
I GUESS I just pronounced myself anathema. There is little in the American English language that currently creates such a backlash as the word “woke.” And that is a case of lumping things together so we can dismiss them all instead of dealing with the one thing that makes us uncomfortable.
I hear that “woke” means having men in women’s restrooms. That “woke” means taking away everyone’s guns. That “woke” means rewriting history and denying cultural heritage. That “woke” means political correctness. That “woke” means you can’t compliment a woman on her looks. That “woke” means allowing the country to be overrun by illegal immigrants. That “woke” means increasing taxes to pay for foreign aid instead of helping veterans. That “woke” means giving handouts to people who are too lazy to work. That “woke” means paying millions of dollars to forgive student loans instead of making them work to pay them off like everyone else. (Except large corporations and banks who get their debts forgiven all the time.)
Pseudo-conservatives wrap anything up that they dislike and refer to it as “woke” in order to keep from acknowledging the one simple thing that it is:
To be aware of and concerned about social injustice.
And believe me, neo-liberals contribute to the same load of crap by claiming that whatever their current cause is amounts to being “woke.”
My earliest writings—we’re talking about the 70s and 80s—carried the same themes that my current writings do. Equal rights. Civil rights. Women’s rights. Antiwar. Anti-discrimination. Freedom to control our own bodies, families, money, and thinking. Freedom to be who we are and not who the government or a political party tells us we have to be.
It strikes me as strange that political parties that claim to be in support of no government regulation, and personal rights (like freedom of speech, freedom to bear arms, freedom of assembly, etc.) are also the ones voting for regulation of those very things. Please don’t tell me I am anti-Republican or anti-Democrat because I consider both to be equally bad about this.
One of the things that surprises me is how one side will take a position that it ordinarily would be opposed to if it weren’t for the other side being opposed to it. For example, show a picture of a young woman standing on the American flag and the right will want to crucify her. But show a picture of the American flag with a blue or black stripe replacing a white stripe, and the same people will talk about how it patriotically honors policemen or fallen first responders.
No, my friends. It is desecrating the American flag just as much as standing on it or burning it! That is not the flag we pledge allegiance to. It has been defaced! But since the left doesn’t like it, the right must declare themselves in favor of it, ignoring the actual law regarding display of the flag. (While you’re at it, check out what the law says about wearing the flag or using it as decoration on vehicles or clothing. It’s pretty specific about what is allowed.)
Fly a thin blue line flag (blue stripe against a black field) if you wish. Fly a rainbow flag if you wish. Fly an MIA/POW flag if you wish. But this law-abiding patriotic author objects to you flying a desecrated American flag. That’s not “woke.” It’s simply obeying the law.
So, why do some people object so strenuously to the term “woke” and insist they are anti-woke because they are conservative?
It’s really pretty simple.
If I lump together all the things that some people claiming to be “woke” believe (gun control, gay marriage, men in women’s bathrooms, open borders, etc.) then I can be against it and ignore the fundamental item of being aware of and concerned about social injustice.
So, scrap the word “woke” from your vocabulary. It has become burdened with so many extra items, the people who use it on either side of the aisle are using a meaningless term. If you are truly anti-woke, stand in front of a mirror, and declare to yourself, “I am unaware of and don’t care about social injustice.” Then you get a free pass to be whatever kind of asshole you want to be.
As for me, I will continue—as I have for forty-five years as an author—writing stories that bring attention to racism, women’s rights, voter rights, antiwar, gay rights, freedom of religion rights, the entire Bill of Rights, and these unalienable rights: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
If you insist on calling that “woke,” then go back to sleep and live in your dreams where real life can’t interfere.
If I have any readers left after that rant, I’ll invite you to join me as I continue to explore the responsibilities of an author of erotica. Next week: “Consent in Fiction.”
This is number sixty-one in the blog series, “My Life in Erotica.” I encourage you to join my Patreon community to support my writing.
THIS IS PROBABLY not as dire a blog post as the title sounds. No one I know is dealing with an incurable disease at the moment. At least not one you’d recognize readily. That’s because a lot of chronic conditions aren’t easily seen by other people.
I have a friend who deals with chronic pain that would cripple me every single day, but people talking to her or interacting in public don’t have a clue that she is in pain. I have a friend whose depression manifests itself in anger and sleep. People who aren’t aware might call her lazy because she sleeps an entire day or two days or more at a time. Since writing about my heart condition and procedures, several people have written to me to describe similar conditions and how it sapped the energy from them.
The simple truth is we don’t know what is bothering other people. So, when we encounter a person who says she is depressed, a typical response is “What do you have to be depressed about?” As if depression requires a cause and it can be cured by just being happy.
I have heard—even received email—about homeless people just needing to get a job and shape up. A few years in prison would wake them up. But not one person is willing to give a job to a homeless person who has no address, hasn’t had a bath in weeks, has only the clothes on his back, and drinks a little too much wine. That latter, by the way, is something you can get by with if you are clean, have a change of clothes, and have an address. Then you just like to party.
I’ve dealt with homelessness in several of my stories. Model Student book 5, The Odalisque, has scenes in a Tent City in Seattle. It drew horrendous venom from some readers who genuinely felt those people should not have what little they do have. “Throw them all in jail for a year or two. They won’t be living on the streets after that.” Really? How many former convicts are living on the street? For that matter, how many Vietnam veterans?
In my Nathan Everett book, The Volunteer, I wrote about a chronically homeless man, trapped in his own mind as he wanders from handout to handout. The good, forward-thinking Unitarian congregation, who were devoted to a movement to end homelessness in King County in ten years, were appalled when I noted that since they’d started their campaign, homelessness had been on the increase and that there were many people on the street who would never not be homeless.
In Devon Layne’s Not This Time, the main character launches her own campaign to help the homeless. Her first endeavor was to give them an address. It might surprise you to know that without a permanent street address, you cannot get a driver’s license, collect social security, get health insurance, vote, get a passport, or get a job. But we still jump up and down and say the freeloaders should just get a job.
My theory is that we seldom know and understand what is needed in order to improve our own lives, and other people never know how to improve our lives.
Of course, I started this post talking about incurable illness. When I first started writing erotica, my daughter was in severe depression. She had never been fully engaged in school. She hated the college she chose. I picked her up at her dormitory on multiple occasions—literally carrying her—to go to the emergency room because she was in such severe muscle spasms that she could not get up off the floor.
I decided to write a story about a depressed college student at a similar arts college, and thus began the Model Student series. I learned in a most painful and direct way about some of the serious aspects of depression. I passed those on to my readers.
Unlike the premise of other literary works, especially of erotica, I found that you cannot just cure depression. You can treat it. You can mitigate some of the problems. You can control it with drugs to some extent. But it is always lurking in the background, ready to spring forward with the slightest trigger. In some stories, the person suffering from depression has sex for the first time and is suddenly cured! Not so in Model Student.
Oh, sex is great! Don’t get me wrong. It brings with it a kind of euphoria and feeling of well-being with the release of endorphins. That lasts for an hour or two. Then depression may be aggravated by guilt, pressure, expectation, and exhaustion. If that is the only way the depression is being treated, it may eventually seem that sex is just another chore to endure and there is no joy in it.
Authors and readers: You cannot cure depression by ‘making the character happy.’ Your character may have all the appearances of being happy and still be depressed. You may put your homeless character in a shelter and he is still homeless. You may make a strongman out of a 98-pound weakling and still have him weak where it counts.
And when you acknowledge the difficulty, realize there is such a thing as ‘not having enough spoons’ to get out of bed, understand that tears may always be a heartbeat away for what seems to be no reason, then your writing may be not only sensual and erotic, but comforting and encouraging at the same time.
This all sounds terribly ‘woke,’ doesn’t it? Well, good. That’s a start, but it is by no means the end of things. Next week: “What It Means to be a Woke Author.”
This is number sixty in the blog series, “My Life in Erotica.” I encourage you to join my Patreon community to support my writing.
LET ME START by saying: I know of no impending deaths, either of people I know or characters I write about. I am in good health and was given the all-clear by my cardiologist this week. Relax. A little.
What I am talking about is the death of a character in a story that so upsets readers that they have to sit back and decide whether they will continue reading the story (or watching the television series or movie). I know many people, for instance, who continued watching Game of Thrones, despite their favorite character having just been killed. I dealt with it in every season finale of NCIS in the first sixteen seasons. (Once they were no longer on Netflix, I quit watching.) At the end of each season, I had to decide whether the show was worth watching with so-and-so dead.
On the other hand, a typical response to a death in one of my stories—which are supposed to be entertaining erotica—is met with a lengthy rant and declaration that they will no longer be reading the story and have just voted it a one.
This has happened more than once. Deaths in my stories seem to happen out of the blue. Everyone is totting along joyfully and then all of a sudden X has been brutally murdered. It affects me as much as losing my closest friend would, because I have invested a part of myself in this character. I am so devastated that I cannot continue.
But we do.
Despite the number of people who write to me to tell me they read my stories to escape from reality, not to have their nose rubbed in it.
“I get enough of this on the daily news!”
“You’ve broken the contract with your readers!”
“At least I know how the story ends because for me, it ended today.”
And yet…
And yet, we are seemingly obsessed with having every mundane detail in a story the way it would be in real life. “That’s not how it would really happen.” I got that even in Devon Layne’s outer space fantasy story, The Assassin. “Actually, the tides would be so severe on such a planet that they would wipe out every living thing on dry ground daily.”
In my currently running serial, Follow Focus, there are many things to criticize. It's a historical novel, set in the early seventies. It cost me about five or six hours of research per hour of writing time. There were so many details about pay scales, cameras and film, open embassies, war, politics, and real estate that I was overwhelmed by the amount of research.
And what bit of the story was considered unbelievable?
“It’s called Toad in the Hole, not Toad in a Hole.”
A mistaken article.
But what no one is expecting in that story is for a character to die. And since the story is available for both online reading and eBook, I’ll give the spoiler: No one does.
Follow Focus and the entire Photo Finish series are available at Bookapy.
So, that all begs the question of why put a tragic death in my entertaining erotica stories at all?
The answer is simple. My characters become living breathing personalities that insinuate themselves into our hearts. I’ve sometimes told people that the characters I write are often more real to me than the people I meet. But as real people, I can’t write them without being real. And life contains those tragic moments just as it contains the first time making love to your one and only. Dealing with tragedy is a necessary step in becoming an adult.
I spend much more time exploring how the remaining characters deal with the death, are changed by it, and survive past it than I do describing the death itself.
It’s not always a death that drives this forward. It can be a loss, a breakup, a tornado, a failure. They all drive the characters forward.
And sometimes, they drive us forward as well.
We relive a similar incident in our lives and experience the emotions again. We gain the opportunity to deal with a life tragedy vicariously, through the experience of these characters.
I seldom set out to kill a character. I knew when I wrote Nathan Everett’s For Money or Mayhem that someone important to Dag was going to die. I didn’t know who or when, but that was the theme of the Seattle Digital Noir mysteries. When I realized who and how that character would die, I was devastated. It was a defining moment in my life. Everything I knew about life changed that day. My relationships changed. My lifestyle changed. My emotions changed. Nothing was ever the same again.
When an eleven-year-old little sister died in one of my Devon Layne series, I didn’t even know she’d died until the next chapter. I thought I’d saved her! And I was crushed when I found out I’d failed. That is as an author. I can only imagine that it also affected my readers, based on the number of emails I received.
Suddenly and unexpectedly.
The death of a fictional character opens both author and reader to forming a deeper relationship with other characters. It sucks us further into the story. We are either severed from it or we become part of it. We are emotionally invested in it.
Understand that I have no “justification” for the death of any character in any of my stories. Even in real life, justification of a death is trite and hollow.
“She was 96. She had a good life.”
No! She had a long life. She was miserable throughout. She was mean and heartless and no one was really that sad to see her go. Saying she had a good life is trite and meaningless. She left the world a better place because she was no longer in it.
There is no reason for a death in a story. It usually surprises me. It comes suddenly and unexpectedly and is a turning point for me as an author because I must give up or turn it into something that changes people. And no matter how entertaining my stories may be, how sexy the love scenes are, how successful the characters become… You do not read one of my stories exempt from being changed.
I’ve often read stories that have a depressed individual suddenly cured by having sex for the first time. Hah! It doesn’t work that way. Next week, “Dealing with the Incurable.”
This is number fifty-nine in the blog series, “My Life in Erotica.” I encourage you to join my Patreon community to support my writing.
I ADMIT to being older than I was when I started writing erotica. I hate to say it, but if you’ve been reading my works of erotica since I released my first serial, The Art and Science of Love, back in 2011, you’ve gotten older, too. And as you get older, time starts to lose meaning. It might seem to move interminably slowly, or it might be racing past. 2024 is already a third over!
I find that I keep track of what day of the week it is by what is printed on my pill tray. Ah yes! It must be Friday and I’ve taken the morning dose.
I think just this short introduction answers the question, “Why don’t you write about people your own age?”
Monday, my houseguest left after a delightful ten-day visit. I don’t entertain house guests often. I looked at my calendar to try to figure out what all we did during that time. I guess I felt compelled to entertain her and my friends here in Vegas fell in line to help. If my count is correct, we saw six shows, had a champagne brunch, ate out for spaghetti and meatballs, sushi, and burgers, and toured Hoover Dam.
I struggled to get any writing done, even though I was uninterrupted all morning each day because she slept until at least noon. I have reached the undeniable conclusion that there is simply something about the presence of breasts in this bachelor pad that is very distracting to this old bachelor. Even if he is not actively engaged with them at the moment.
All the way back in the early days of my erotica career when I was working on the Model Student series, I recognized the distractibility of artists (including writers). By that time, I’d already published four mainstream novels by Nathan Everett and had discovered that when I was writing, I did not see or hear anything else around me. I was very much like Tony when he had earbuds in and a canvas in front of him.
In Diva, Model Student book three, Tony’s parents recite the story of his having been missing for an entire day back in Nebraska. When he finally came pedaling his bicycle into the yard, it was pastor Larsen who asked him what he’d been doing. Tony showed the preacher a sketchbook that was completely filled with the things he’d drawn that day. The entire concept of time had vanished. This theme recurs frequently in the series.
And it recurs frequently in my life.
The entire Model Student series is available as individual eBooks or as a six-book set from Bookapy. Paperback from other vendors.
It was a relatively new experience to be distracted from writing. In 2019, I wrote 1.14 million words. In 2021, 1.17 million words. In 2022, 1.39 million words! That’s well over 3,000 words a day for 365 days straight! My writing distracted me from all kinds of chaos around me. It was the only thing I could see or focus on.
This year, by the way, I’m averaging only slightly more than 1,700 words a day.
My word count fell off drastically during 2023. Not because I wasn’t distracted by my writing, but because the writing of Follow Focus, the sixth and final volume in the Photo Finish series, required five to six hours of research for every hour of writing I put in. And I know it’s not error-free. There were many things I remembered from my young adult years in the 1970s that I had to revise my understanding of in light of my research. Not everything was the way I remembered it.
It was also the 21-22 season, while I was working on the Team Manager series, that I became a fan of women’s college basketball—first of the American Rivers Conference and Simpson College in Iowa (NCAA Div III), and then of the remarkable Caitlyn Clark of the University of Iowa. (Not Iowa State as so many writers who don’t bother to research their stories have stated.) That made writing from November to March a little more difficult. I’d discovered a new distraction.
I’m determined not to let all the streaming service channels that I had to purchase for this year’s season control my life. I canceled all the subscriptions as soon as the tournament was over. Now I’m investigating which service I will have to subscribe to in order to watch some of the same players now that they are in the WNBA.
Um… Sorry. Got a little distracted there.
My point is… I think… that the older I get the more easily I become distracted. Especially by breasts inhabiting my trailer for a week. It did not require being actively engaged with said breasts to distract me—though that was also a distraction. Their mere presence in their unadorned glory (the typical state in the trailer) was enough to make me forget what I was working on.
Into the breach comes the outline. When I have two or three days in a row during which I am not writing, I have to spend half the next day reading at least the past two chapters or more and reconstructing my thought process regarding where I was going with this masterpiece. That happened with next Sunday’s release of Nathan Everett’s (Wayzgoose) The Staircase of Dragon Jerico. I followed my initial outline last November and had a draft of a little over 60,000 words. When I had to put it aside for a while, it was the outline I created that kept the book on track through an additional 30k.
Then I finished a draft of A Place Among Peers, which is still awaiting my attention to rewrite. A random comment by a reader of A Place at the Table showed me where I think I was still missing something in the current work and I’ll get back to it soon. Distracted. I started the next book in The Props Master Series, but about the time I received word in late December that I needed a few procedures on my heart, I was distracted from finishing it.
I determined to learn more about my craft—I’ve been doing this for forty years now—and become a better writer. So, when I started my current work in progress, I constructed a beat sheet outline that I revised and expanded regularly before I started writing the first draft, and have revised frequently since. I’ve found it extremely valuable, because while I was being distracted by breasts in my trailer, the beat sheet was steadily holding the story in line. Monday when my guest departed, I looked at the beat sheet and immediately wrote the next two chapters of The Strongman. I’m still only about halfway through the story, but I’m right on track with what I outlined as what I wanted the story to look like.
I don’t know if I’ll continue to do such elaborate pre-planning for future stories, but I feel that as I get older and more distractible by little things—well, not that little—a better and more complete outline will start to hold my stories together better than I can currently do when writing by the seat of my pants.
We shall see what comes next in May!
This is number fifty-eight in the blog series, “My Life in Erotica.” I encourage you to join my Patreon community to support my writing.
I’VE BEEN MARRIED three times. That might not be the most bizarre thing I did for love, but it’s near.
No, as embarrassing as that fact is, I’m going for even more embarrassing. What could be more idiotic than a child’s imagined love? Let’s start with third grade, shall we? I was a less than popular kid, but I had a very active fantasy life. Playing a pretend game on the playground with my best friend Brian, in which we killed a huge whale, cleaned it out, and made it into a ship is just a sign that back in the fifties, we didn’t have cell phones. Inviting the cute preacher’s daughter to go for a ride in my whale-ship, though might have been taking it a step too far.
She thought I was weird. And she wasn’t the last girl who told me so.
You see, the weird, embarrassing, and totally off-the-wall parts of our lives are where creative writing is born. It is the author’s prerogative to ‘set things right’ in a story. This kid stumbles on an anomaly in the space-time continuum in which the space ships are actually living beings who could fly between worlds. He lives part time in the world of the space beings and part time in his third grade class at Kennedy Elementary and Junior High. That is until one day when he sees his crush, the preacher’s daughter, wander into that part of the playground and fall through the anomaly. Our hero jumps to rescue her, rallying his space beings to search for her and save her from an evil alien.
It’s no longer so weird that he could sail in a whale to the rescue of his would-be girlfriend.
Move forward to fourth grade—yes, same preacher’s daughter crush. I wrote my first novel for her. Must have been five or six thousand words. I called it Princes and Princesses. I don’t think it had much plot to it, but we were from different kingdoms attempting to find a way to marry and live happily ever after. Of course, friend Brian and a tall thin girl named Liz were the other prince and princess, so the solution had to work for all of us. I don’t recall there was much of a plot, other than the four of us riding through the forest on our horses.
Thirty years later, I turned that into a simple little fantasy story for my daughter, who loved to hear me tell her stories before bedtime. Oh, and the solution to the problem of how to be together came when they decided to build a castle at the four corners, where their kingdoms met. They could live there together and rule all four kingdoms from there.
The crush came to a slow end when she moved away after sixth grade. Being the naïve and religious boy I was, I said my prayers at night, pleading that my kisses would follow her and she would know I loved her.
Sigh.
Forty years later, she became Brian’s love interest and first girlfriend in Living Next Door to Heaven. The embarrassing crush of grade school was rewritten into a love story that kept the two together happily ever after.
This week, my new Nathan Everett contemporary romance, The Staircase of Dragon Jerico, went on pre-sale at Bookapy and other vendors. It will release in eBook and paperback on May 5, when the serial will also begin posting at StoriesOnline.
Coworkers are a great source of embarrassing situations that are fodder for later literary endeavors. Of course, after about 1985, we started getting more aware of the perceived pressure of office romances and how we were contributing to a future “Me Too” movement. Office romance was often curtailed. I received a nice note from a website called Office Romance in 2003 that said one of my coworkers was interested in going out and to respond to this message if I was open to the possibility.
Nice. Neither person needed to feel pressured. The contact was completely anonymous. Neither party felt stalked. All I had to do was pay $50 for a membership to the site and they would pass on my message. Right.
I also had the experience of hiring my own boss. Or rather, I hired a co-worker who became my boss. That was a little awkward and I borrowed a great deal from the experience when I wrote The Staircase of Dragon Jerico. In this new book:
Erin is stranded in a new town after a short and bitter divorce and waits tables in a diner where she meets the man of her dreams; but Preston is a socially inept recluse constantly on guard against gold diggers. When Erin inadvertently becomes his personal assistant, a comedy of errors ensues that throws the two together—and threatens to tear them apart.
It’s not really erotica, but it is a nice contemporary romance with a little sex in it eventually. The Staircase of Dragon Jerico is available for pre-order now at Bookapy. Release date is 5 May 2024.
I was foolish enough to fall in love again—this time with an online friend. Now, the problem with me falling in love is that I always seem to attract women with "problems." Even my current houseguest is in the midst of a messy divorce. Not ideal circumstances.
Back about the time I started my travels with a truck and trailer, I met a woman online who was a fellow writer and invited me to join her online writing group. I did, and found her to be funny and charming. We both wrote erotica and shared bits back and forth. We even got into some role-playing of characters. All in the safety of our online relationship. And to the embarrassment of one of our group members who felt our role-playing was getting too explicit for the group forum.
But this Missouri backwoods girl’s life was becoming more and more complicated by the day. She had two daughters in high school and one married and pregnant. Her husband was a butcher and money was tight. She stayed home to take care of her ailing mother-in-law. Then there were problems with her teeth, a broken computer, trying to get her daughter a scholarship to a music school, a new granddaughter she couldn’t bear to be apart from, and a few arguments with her ex-husband over the married daughter and her family.
The times we had together online were great, but it became more and more evident that it would be a mistake to try to meet in person. But what fodder for a story! As yet it is unwritten, but I’m guessing there will be a story in which the obstacles are conquered, and we get together.
That’s what writing is about. Didn’t like the way the story ended? Write your own HEA ending!
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