Rewrites suck

I like writing new things. I even like editing. However, I do not like total rewrites. The story I am working on that I really thought would be a light edit turned into a nightmare. It’s only 7000 words, but having to try to keep the plot, the scenes, the continuity, and then change it all so that it doesn’t read like the piece of garbage it was.

It feels strangely stale. Maybe it is my own dislike of rewriting things. How can three sex scenes that were really hot in my head, I really SAW them, and they were good enough to get me horny… how can they end up so dry on paper. Was going to put the original out on here but I am so embarrassed by it I think it’s never going to see the light of day.

Will give it to my partner to proof read tonight. If it doesn’t turn him on, it gets binned.

Feeling blah now. Time for some sunshine.

Working life

Another 2000 words yesterday during a day where I had constant interruptions, people reading over my shoulder (that just annoys the hell out of me) and guests over for the afternoon and evening. Imagine what I could do with a whole day!

Partner has made daft comments about my writing props. I have to admit, my idea of asking for male picture submissions on tumblr sounded dumb at the time but it actually helped. What was better is that none of the guys who sent stuff  were pushy about it either. No follow up, no aggression, nothing but glorious submissions. If anything the guys were actually a bit shy. That actually restores my faith in the online world a bit.

Naked Reading Day?

It was Naked Reading Day yesterday. I only found out when I was at Gatwick. Why didn’t I just pop into the bookstore and grab something trashy… and then where the hell to actually take the pic. Think I would have needed a trusted sidekick. Not sure I could have managed a naked selfie anywhere in the airport.

Windows

When I lived in France I did sometimes sit in the window naked. Glass was so dirty, three floors up, only the people across the street could have ever seen me. Nobody ever did. Used to just sit there and watch the street and wait for the hangover to pass. I miss Paris.

Lingering

The damp patch on the bed sheet is the last of my dream. A love heart from between my legs. I trace my fingers around it, wishing you were mixed in. My partner wakes, showers, returns. Fingers glide through my hair. We fuck. He comes. I don’t. He dresses, kisses, leaves. I wish you were between my legs. Finally, you make me come.