What is the difference between a writer and a sex worker?
After all, they both provide a service. A way of taking you out of yourself for a short time, putting you in a different character and replacing your humdrum reality with sheer fantasy.
Sex workers frequently get paid for being fucked.
Yeah, harsh, I know, yet it is true. Was talking to a charming and very talented comedienne last night and she will not put clips up online because she has had material stolen in the past. Infuriating, yet saddening at the same time. She spends hours working on her material, honing the words and delivery over and over again, only for some no talent skank to steal the results and present it as her own.
Ain’t exactly right. Yet it is something that anyone who works with words has dealt with at some stage. The casual appropriation of your research and agonising (Fuck off spell check, I ain’t American and don’t use Z) over every single line with not a bit of credit or acknowledgement. Or payment.
Payment is not usually important online. You write stuff because you want to, people read it, talk about it and enjoy it if you are lucky. Get really lucky and you’ll see one of your bon mots appearing over a rage comic or cat picture. Yet for those of us who depend on words to make our living, you are stealing our burger patty and leaving us with the bun and those weird-ass pickles.
Thus ended the sermon.
It is the FB page for my new none fiction book. Excepts, ideas and various news about it will be posted there. Questions or suggestions of a biologically possible nature are always welcome. Suggestions of a biologically impossible nature - post em, I need the laugh.
Your mother’s maiden name, the name of your first pet, your birthday and the first street you grew up on are usually the same fields used for password security reset questions
You never think it can happen to you, do you. Shit happens, you get punched in the face by life, friends or random assholes, but you always get off your ass, back on your feet and keep walking on. Sometimes you even learn something. A life lesson, something that bad movies love and most normal people hate with the fury of a thousand bad decisions. No one ever likes being wrong.
Sometimes, though, you break.
It is an odd feeling when that happens. You don’t fall apart - this is not some bad Victorian novel. You carry on. Thing is, you are not sure what broke, you just know something has. A part of you that was always there no longer is. You reach out for it, and there is nothing but empty space where whatever it is should be. You can’t even fill the gap. You don’t know what should be there. Is it empathy, sympathy, courage, love, trust? Who knows. It is just gone. No longer part of your soul.
The kid is starting to get interesting now. Feed her, play with her, then put her down in her little cot and watch her. You can actually see her thinking. I’ll glance at her while working and she’ll be looking at me consideringly - like a cat looks at a mouse.
Both freaky and kinda fun.
A version for tumblr that can be read without opening a new tab, since plenty of people would scroll past this story otherwise.
The bravest woman on Earth.
No words. Read the fucking thing.
Got some interest in me writing an advice book on sex and life. It is fun to think about, though avoiding self plagiarizing will be a bitch after all this time.
Working in comics and graphic novels, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard this:
“I’m working on my first graphic novel. It’s gonna take a long time to do but it’s gonna be so great. So EPIC.”
We all want to do something great. We all want to leave our…
Too true in any form of art and well worth the read.
So I am a Credence fan, sue me. Oddly enough, this song worked its way into my brain, not during my youth when Run Through The Jungle and Proud Mary were always on the playlist, but as part of the sound track to An American Werewolf In London, one of the unsung heroes of the horror genre.
Why? It does the thing that horror movies should do but rarely do - it is funny as hell in spots. Horror doesn’t live in a vacuum and humor is both a coping mechanism and a way of enhancing the tale, turning it up to 11 and snapping off the knob if you like analogue analogies. If you don’t get off my damned lawn.
I could go off on chapter and verse about the significance of the beast within as a particularly chilling and effective example of the horror genre, but that has been written about with greater effect and literacy by far better authors than I. What rarely gets mentioned is the humor needed to turn something adequate into something great.
AAWIL does this perfectly. The subtle digs in the pub, The Slaughtered Lamb. The naked run through London in balloons and a fur coat after the first night’s transformation. The sardonic and very much dead and slowly rotting sidekick eating eggs and soldiers and having the yoke dripping out of the hole in his neck. They force you to laugh when you least expect it, magnifying the frankly brilliant effects and story telling.