(no subject)

So, really, to date myself for a moment, I blame Romancing the Stone as to why I'm a romantica writer. I figured in my now ::mumblemumblemumble:: head, much as I figured in my eight year old head that it was all romantic and throwing glasses into the fireplace and feeding the cat fancy food and crying at the end of the story because I am that amazed by my own awesomeness.

At the very least, I figured it was a lot of martinis and sexy parties.

Picture it! My living room, I'm wearing flannel pjs and my hair is up in a teeny ponytail. I am stone cold sober. I am looking at Ikea sinks and studiously avoiding eye contact with Jow who is about to enforce writing time.

Jow: Time to write, yay!
Me: Just one more sink!
Jow: Nope.
Me (sullenly): I don't want to.
Jow: Why not?
Me: 'Cause it's all fucking sex scenes now.
Jow: Is this a problem?
Me: Do I look like I'm feeling super sexy right now? I'm tired, I need to make dinner, I just got home from work, and I want to look at sinks.
Jow: Is there anything else you could do?
Me: No. I just . . .I just have to fucking do it. If I ever want new sinks, I need to fucking write the fucking. Man, I have to be some kind of failer at this.
Jow: Did you think it would be, like, sexy parties?
Me (sullenly): Yes.
Jow: Do you think other writers have it super glamorous?
Me (sullenly): Yes. At the very least, I've never pictured other romance/erotica/romance writers glaring balefully at their scenes, pissed and aggreviated and not in the mood to write the sexxors.
Jow: It's a job baby. I'm sure that it's not always exciting to them, but they get it done, they do it sexy because they know x words will produce y reaction, they still likely get excited by other people's work, just like you.
Me: Yeah. Blah.

A day in the life of a romantica writer, ladies and gentlemen!

YMMV. . .(from a conversation I had today)

If you are [secretly bitter and resentful], after i've asked repeatedly and you've repeatedly said you're okay and a little nervous, if it's more than that, not to be a bitch, but it's not my problem because you haven't been honest with me. So I work off the assumption you're being honest with me. I mean of course, if you realize you're a little more worried than you thought or something happens to upset you and you talk about it with me, no problem, we'll work it out. But if you're secretly harboring massive resentment and you don't talk to me about it, not my problem frankly. The only life I can manage is my own and i need to be able to trust the people in my life to be functioning adults who can be responsible for their own lives too.

(You've thought a lot about this haven't you?)

Nothing like a $5,000 divorce to give one pause about these things. I don't think it's necessary to take things to the logical extreme (i.e. I say something mean and you're hurt and it's your problem you're hurt not mine!!) but it's certainly made me think a lot about boundaries and responsibility.

And at the end of the day I think everyone is responsible for their own happiness, their own financial future, and being able to function as adults (i.e. paying bills, feeding one's self, clothing one's self, medical attention, etc.). and if you're not able to do those things on your own, it's your job to ask for help with whatever. I mean what's good for the goose is good for the gander. I haven't just become more aggressive about policing this in other people to maintain my boundries, but mostly to hold myself accountable to these standards.

I figure if I can survive adult life on my own, then besides grief and sadness of someone's crazy has shifted enough that we can't have a relationship together, I'll be okay. Not immediately, but eventually. I was okay eventually when my dad died, when i got fibro, when wasband left. I will be okay again if something else terrible happens.

So for me it comes down to believing in myself and my ability to be okay, and I believe in that.

messing around in my old diaryland account

And I found:

2004-11-04 @ 2:47 p.m.
prose poem
Song in the Key of Me

I sing myself a song of hope because I am the one who will listen. Hopeful that today may be the day that I accept my body unconditionally and all the things my body can do.

I sing myself a siren song because I am the one will listen. Because I am a siren. I am sexy and power*full. Knowing your own power is sexy. Sexy like my large breasts, the tattoo on my back, the piercing in my round tummy, my shaved pussy, my plastic librarian glasses. Sexy like my words. Sexy like my voice. Sexy like my actions. Sexy like when I tied you up and I tie you down and I make you want it. I make you need it. I make you need what I can give you because no one else can.

I sing myself a song of prayer because I am the one who will listen. Prayer to my own inner goddess, dear lordress let me not be afraid to success. Let me not be afraid of my own power. Let me not be afraid of the size of my body. Let me not be afraid to use the power that was granted by me for me. Let me not be afraid of the power of my own sexuality that is too big to fit into someone else's tiny checkboxes. O lordress, hear me.

Hear me. Hear me. Hear me.