Crumb on Writing

I recently watched the documentary "Crumb." Robert Crumb was a cartoonist, and quite a few writing craft type moments stood out that I'll share here.

(Spoilers, if you'd rather watch the documentary.)

He was discussing craft with his son, who is also a cartoonist, and his son said something about Robert being rich and famous. HIs dad said, "We're not talking about becoming rich and famous. We're talking about learning to draw."

They also discussed portraits. And his dad told his son to go ahead and cheat a little. They were drawing from photographs and the dad pointed out a slight sneer in the picture and told his son to make the sneer just a little more pronounced in the drawing than it was in the photo. To make the sneer more clear to whoever was viewing the drawing. "Go ahead, cheat a little."

Then he didn't drive, so one time he had a friend drive him around and he took photos of things like power boxes on the sides of buildings telephone lines. Then they showed the photos alongside his cartoons where he recreated them. "See how ugly that is? You can't make that up." He called that photo album his most valuable resource.

He had an older brother Charles, who was also a cartoonist. But he was mentally ill. He became obsessed with writing, to the point where he would not even write words but fill notebooks with wavy lines. It was interesting to compare the two. Robert, who was as eccentric as could be, but managed to still function as an artist. Robert did his own thing, no question, but he continued to do a thing people would at least have a chance to relate to. Charles, due to his mental illness, lost any touch with any possible audience. Charles was extreme, but it made me reflect on where that line is. An artist can create work so easily digestible by the mainstream that some would refuse to call it art any longer. But here, with Charles, was an example of an artist going to such an extreme of not relating to an audience that I don't think anyone could call it art any longer.

Interesting movie, if you haven't seen it, I recommend it. If you have, what were your thoughts?

Courting Her, another fav moment

(Kimberly and Alex call oral sex a princess kiss. I think it becomes clear what a special one is in the excerpt.)


Kimberly propped her head up and met Alex's gaze that had been on her for several quiet minutes. "I want a special princess kiss."

"What's that?"

"It's like a princess kiss, but in a special place."

"Where?"

"I think you know where." She stared hard into his eyes.

Alex lowered his. "Really?"

"Yes, really," she said, as Alex had made the mistake of revealing trepidation. "Your nose has been there. Is a tongue so much worse?"

"Why?"

"Why?" She lay back and looked to the ceiling. "Because it would a wonderful way to be loved and accepted, for one thing. Because it would feel good, for another. Because I want you to think, every time you look at me, that you do that for me."

"I already think, every time I look at you, that you spank me whenever you want, and that I give you regular princess kisses whenever you want."

"Good. This will be another thing, just like that."

Kimberly coming at the moon

(Quick Set-up: After being informed by Kimberly she wants to commemorate their first night in their newly purchased home by denying him permission to come, Alex invites her out of the bedroom and into the living room.)

Alex lay on his back with his head under the window frame, and his legs sprawled out perpendicular. His suffering that leaked from the tip of Cute Thing was an incandescent yellow.

"You can look into the moon during," Alex said.

"It's too light."

"What, are you shy?"

Kimberly scowled. Despite the light of the moon, open windows across the street appeared as black holes. Maybe the dark would hide her. On bent knees, she crossed the room, knelt over Alex's face, and ducked as far as she could under the window sill. "All our new neighbors are going to see my boobs." Kimberly giggled.

Alex didn't respond as his mouth was occupied.

At first, Kimberly kept her nipples concealed with her arm, but her sense of modesty dwindled as Alex performed under her. She pressed her hands against the glass and looked up at the half-moon. Its light drizzled, landing in her yard, where the nuanced green of her lawn shimmered as her body responded to the attentions from her prince. She looked down, where Alex--the rest of his face contorted with the effort of his task--blinked back with placid eyes. She ran her hand through his hair, then looked back up into the sky, gripped the window sill, and bucked hard until she came.

An Excerpt from the novel Courting Her by Gregory Allen, published by Pink Flamingo, available in paperback and as an Ebook. Thank you for reading!

How I Write Novels (Not Prettily)

I begin with a snatch. Wait, not that. I begin with a quick scene idea. For example, Courting Her began with this:

 

"Why didn't you put your feet down when I said?" After Alex takes his feet down from the coffee table not quite swiftly enough to satisfy Kimberly.

 

Protege Mistress started as a short story about a man losing a bet to his shift manager and having to kiss her feet, but the novel began when that short story ended with this:

 

"Good boy. See you at work."

 

From there I'm thinking about the story more than I'm writing the story. I consider and discard directions the story might go in. I'm either writing that initial scene or I'm still writing something else, but that novel idea is growing on some level, not subconsciously but close to that. Those nearly subconscious ideas start to bulge and I begin to feel a pressing urge to get them down on paper, like needing to pee, but I never outline. I probably should but I never do. I jot notes, usually in the form of dialogue, of future scenes, (finding them later is always a bitch) but I keep these story ideas circulating in my head, and it's the fear of losing them all, along with perseverance and dedication and all those noble adjectives other writers possess, that is the main thing that motivates my daily writing.

 

I'm nearing completion of my eighth book, and I just figured out that this is my process, it's kind of a mess. And I'm sure I'm coming off like I'm trying to sound like a creative genius, inventing in a cave instead of a lab, all that. Maybe. There is a romantic element to not outlining and "just being" as a writer. I'm aware it's bullshit. All writers do the same thing. All books are written twice. Once for the authors and once to show potential readers what the authors showed themselves. There are as many ways to accomplish that as there are books that have ever been written. Authors are just people who became obsessed with an idea for a story and do what people who are obsessed do. Authors are nothing special; books are special.   

Kimberly meets Alex's friends, in Serving Her

She snapped the porch light on and Alex got behind her just in time to see his two friends’ jaws drop open. “You’re both here,” Kimberly said.

Alex called hello over her shoulder.

            “Trevor drove, so I could get drunk. I won the coin toss.”

            “Such responsible boys,” Kimberly said. “But no fun! You told me who is who, and I had wanted to guess. Oh well. Come on in.” She stepped back and waved them forward. Trevor and Michael filed in. Alex nodded to them both, rather meekly. Kimberly had already taken control of the greetings, but her tone was so friendly and natural, so upbeat, there didn’t seem anything strange about her command, even though Alex was the one person who knew everyone.

            One time Alex walked up on two undercover policemen busting a group of guys for something, probably drugs. The two controlled the group with sheer hubris, engaging each and moving freely among them. They were simply assertive, and the group wilted to them and remained docile until the parking lot filled with police cars. Of course, they also probably had guns Alex couldn’t see. Kimberly almost seemed to be employing a similar method, except there was nothing disingenuous about the way she addressed Michael and then Trevor. Touching Trevor’s arm and then Michael’s. Moving in front of one then the other. They both watched her in a state of rapture. They barely acknowledged Alex. Trevor presented her with a bottle of red wine. “A house warming present.”

            Kimberly was particular about her wine, and Alex hoped his friends had pleased her with their choice. She seemed impressed, though after scanning the label, she said, “But we’re drinking beer, tonight, right? The fridge is full of it. Trevor, we have plenty of soda, as well.”

            “I can start with beer and switch to soda.”

            The introductions trailed off, but they remained in the hall. It seemed they were all waiting for Kimberly to say when to come farther in. She smiled. She handed the bottle of wine to Alex. “I’m so excited to meet you both.” She moved in and hugged Michael. She slipped in close and brought her arms under his and squeezed his shoulders. Michael’s arms draped lightly around her back. As she drew away and moved in front of Trevor, Alex felt a slight pang of jealousy. Trevor appeared giddily nervous. She pressed close and gave him the same long hug she’d given Michael. Trevor’s arms came around her as tentatively as Michael’s had. The hug was completely innocent and friendly, but Alex wanted to cut in like a suave lover at a ballroom dance.

            Kimberly slipped out of Trevor’s arms. She smiled at Alex and touched his chest as she walked past him, almost teasing him with only a taste of what she’d just given his friends. He had to remind himself he was her boyfriend. He was living with her. Why was he jealous? He clapped his friends on the back as they went around him, following Kimberly like her two new puppies. Alex found his voice. “Are we going to play some cards?”

Furious Lust by Elise Hepner

Blurb:

One mistake can change a life—let alone an eternity.

Tisiphone’s a revenge demon working for Hades in the Underworld torturing damned souls. When she escapes for three days under the sun with a human male, her leash is pulled tight. Tisiphone’s banished from the Underworld to Earth and stripped of her demonic powers. But that’s not what drives her horrendous nightmares.

Cithaeron’s human life was dedicated to revenge, until a demon walked into it. The wickedly intense, sensually destructive Tisiphone takes over his life with probing questions and haunting caresses. It’s over in a blink. After centuries of torture in Limbo, Hades brings him back for a judgment call that could change their intertwined lives—dead or alive.

Their future is in their past. Their lust can burn each other to the ground. But they’ve got to learn to work together or they’ll both go to Hell for good.

 

Excerpt:

He moved me with confidence, our hips rolling from side to side while his breath eased across my neck. His clean cheek lightly brushed mine. Before I’d found any composure goose bumps dotted my arms and I sensed the curve of his lips against my ear. We worked as one to the techno rhythm that replicated the beat of my heart—my pulse plunged into a rather embarrassing quickness.

 

Through my leather skirt his warmth soaked into my flesh radiating body heat upward through my breasts. My nipples pebbled with sexual awareness, my belly twisting into a labyrinth of knots. His body was tightly pressed against my lower back so there was no question as to whether or not he was enjoying our dance. As his fingers guided the swing of my hips, for once, I’ll admit, I was captivated. While I wasted no time reaching behind me tracing up his arms, shoulders, and chest with my hands.

 

There was a certain seductive slowness that set him apart from my usual partners. He didn’t lack confidence. Much could be gathered from the way a man danced with a woman and my body wasn’t lying to me. I’d learned to trust my instincts. My partner was special.

 

His fingers slipped beneath my clingy, vinyl tank top playing along my ribs. When his hands tightened along my naked flesh our flirtation deepened into a more serious encounter. Despite his hold, I couldn’t avoid savoring his warmth. My first touch of cleansing fire, a comfort, and the key to my arousal. My fingers eased through his soft hair tangling in the strands at the nape of his neck. For the briefest of moments, I entertained the fact that he might go further, cupping my breasts and brushing his calloused thumbs across my tingling nipples.

 

But his hands squeezed tighter along my waist, though we moved as if nothing had changed between us. Would it be wrong to admit I enjoyed this edge? Whatever the game was between us. Even the subtle brush of my stockings against my inner thighs left me wide-eyed and wet between my legs. We were playing with fire.

 

His possessive, too hard touch promised an outcome I couldn’t fathom. A jolt of fear prickled beneath my skin. Though I faltered in my steps, the stranger only pressed harder against my hips with his chin casually resting on the top of my head. He never missed a beat, while I was shivering in his embrace.

 

My throat was constricted to a knot while my instincts shot off sparks inside my body. Yet, I was drawn to him. I moaned when his rough, long fingers slipped down beneath the top of my skirt idly following an outline of the waistband across my stomach—and lower. There was no going back now. Beneath the scent of sweat and alcohol that permeated the club, a familiar charred wood-smoke scent lingered on my clothing.

 

Home.

 

It was only a moment before I completely understood my situation, with a jolt that sent my mind reeling. My weak-kneed acceptance was replaced with ironclad knowledge of the man at my back. His almost unbearable heat lingered inside me. The scent of the Underworld clung to the strands of hair across my face. His unwavering grip. But perhaps, for a second—if I could take some more time to think—

 

Unable to fully process, automatically my arms dropped from around his neck and my hands clenched into fists. Realization left me cold and aching. Without knowing who I was facing, without my powers, it would be foolish to spin on him and attack. But my need to vent my rage left me seething. One of the most sexual moments of my existence in recent history had been dashed.

 

Whoever he was, he was working for them—the Underworld.

 

He’d stopped dancing against me and his breath against the nape of my neck spun me deeper into a confusing hole. It cannot be so. But when I broke our contact from hips to head glancing down the smooth line of my body—Apollo’s balls, I knew those fingers as if they were my own. Could I bring myself to turn around? To look him in the eye?

 

“Tisiphone,” he murmured low and cool against the lip of my ear.

 

I saw his face as if it wasn’t dark in the nightclub—as if my past was yesterday. His low, pleased voice triggered a darkness inside me that I was afraid to acknowledge. His fingers pinched into mine as I tried to pry his hands off me, until I softly cried out. But he let me go, letting me know with his continued presence at my back that he would have kept me there if he wanted to.

 

There would never be enough space between us—this wasn’t real.

 

I turned until I’d locked eyes with his pale gray irises—but they weren’t gray anymore—and not because of the harsh dancehall lighting. While I searched inside his shining coal black eyes, I sensed the trace of brimstone magic within him. His tongue casually flicked across his lips. An unreadable expression, even with neon lights spinning and whirling across him.

 

If he were truly of my old world, his skin would be shiny as an oil slick—black with dappled rainbows beneath the chaotic light play. In the night he’d be purely human in appearance until any ray of light caught his flesh. But there was nothing. Nothing that was recognizable but tan, human flesh like mine.

 

What have they made him? What have they done? Brimstone. Black eyes. No pulse. But looked human. His heat—the undeniable heat of those from the Underworld because though creatures there have no need to breathe or bleed, the temperature at the Earth’s core isn’t anything to trifle with on a whim. He carried the depth of heat that my kind engineered as a defense mechanism to live in the Underworld.

 

That was my answer. I couldn’t deny it any longer. I knew—gods, I wished I didn’t. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Not even a man who had unknowingly condemned me to live a life far from my sister’s for hundreds of years.

 

Demon.

 

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Fictional limits in BDSM

Hello everyone,

I guest posted a blog at Elise Hepner's page. Intended to be a discussion starter about the use of limits in BDSM fiction. I'll leave a link to it and if anyone feels like stopping by, please do. Thanks! I'll post soon another brief excerpt from Serving Her and I still plan to post a series of brief excerpts from Protege Mistress, a story of unrequited love requited. Here's the link to the post at Elise Hepner's site:

http://celise91writer.blogspot.com/2013/01/new-writers-week-gregory-allen.html?zx=7f3de3c341810eba