HUMOUR – Word Ninja Girl

Dissecting the Popularity of 50 Shades of Bad Grammar

Back in 2014, I was at a writer’s conference and was waiting in line for a seat in the hotel restaurant while chatting with a woman I had just met in the lobby.

I didn’t know who she was at the time. Just a really fun and interesting person who had crossed paths with me on that day.

We chatted about a lot of things and the topic turned to romance and erotica writing. I had just published a book under a pen name in that genre.

She had been asked to contribute to an article entitled, 50 Writers On 50 Shades. A look into why a book with so many obvious grammatical errors and ridiculous plot lines had rocketed to the top of the best seller list.

Sidenote: published in the summer of 2011, this book had sold more than 150,000,000 copies just one year later.

So as my new pal, Katharine told me about the article she had been a part of and the fact that the book’s popularity had left the public and the publishing world shaking their heads as to why it was so damn popular, I said, “I can tell you why.”

She tilted her head and said, “ OK. Tell me.”

When I finished my explanation, she gaped at me and said that was the first time she had heard that theory and she wished I had been a contributor to the article too.

Two things

1-I found out later that Katharine was a literary agent. (!!) In New York. With a very successful firm. Yikes. I’m over there shooting my mouth off about my thoughts on women’s romance writing and she’s just laughing and chatting away. I would guess our visit was a nice change from people hitting her up for book pitches and publishing favors.

2- About an hour ago, and years after that chat that had people listening in and chuckling, I found myself on a FB Group message thread where the members were still discussing this baffling phenomena of poor writing generating a best seller and a bazillion dollars. People are still talking about this! Reading through the responses, one thing was clear; no one was addressing the core issue that draws women to read hot, erotic, material.

I couldn’t resist throwing my 50 Shades theory into the fray. The same one I gave Katharine in our not-at-all private setting with a bunch of conference attendees pretending not to listen in. Granted, it’s more than a decade later so not verbatim. And it’s updated, but it’s damn close to the first word barf. And it still feels accurate to me at least. So here it is.

Why was 50 Shades of Grey so freaking popular?

I’ll tell you why.
13 years ago, when the 50 Shades book released, women everywhere, were just realizing something. We were tired of being in charge of our own orgasms.

Directing men in bed with body movements, some words or drawing a map on us to say, “This spot! Right here! The same place that you’ve missed a thousand times!”, gets pretty freaking frustrating.

And given that all they have to do is insert in a hole and repeat to reach their happy ending, women have been living with a lot of mediocre sex. Yes. Some fantastic too, but when you canvas women for factual data, those experiences are as frequent as Halley’s Comet.

So, horrible grammar aside, that guy in that book took 100% charge of the delivery and quality of that girl’s orgasms and, because he enjoyed doing so as much as he did, he even showed her more ways to reach those “little deaths” to more spectacular conclusions. Without a road map! Or running dialog with specific instructions! Unlike the reality of most sexual encounters with non-fictional males who roll over and snore 2 minutes after making a deposit.

Yes, even just 13 years ago, most women were just starting to be more open about seeking satisfying erotic reading, more so with the privacy of a Kindle or e-reader that would allow them to read anywhere, anytime, anything they wanted.

The explosion of horribly written erotica for women after that grammatical dumpster fire was published, was unprecedented. And it also gave an opportunity for the really great writers to rise and shine.

So, thank you E.L. James for that contemporary trailblazing into women’s “romance” writing and she, in turn, can thank Anais Nin for lighting the way.

Women were so hungry for reading about (fictional) lovers who not only can deliver, but REALLY enjoy delivering the goods, that they devoured that spectacularly mediocre writing in 2011. Like picking through the inedible chicken bones to find the juicy meat clinging to the book carcass. And given the fact that Romance Fiction is now a $1.44 Billion dollar genre, I’d say we’re still a little peckish.

And that is why E.L.James is currently lounging on her pool deck in the South of France and we are all in line at Taco Bell waiting for our black bean grilled cheese burritos.

Ten Years Ago When My Brain Melted…

Ten years ago, a health issue led to some questions, that led to some answers, that then led to the destruction of my imagined life and its imagined stability. And that led to what felt like my brain melting and my soul howling out into the void.

If my life were a melatonin induced freaky dream, it would have found me climbing the rope in the gym back in grade school, slapping my hand on the rafter to signal my arrival and then looking down to see someone had lit the rope on fire and it was fast approaching the soles of my Keds.

I have always listened to the Universe as it has guided me on my way. It hasn’t been an easy sprint from point A to point B. In fact, it took me a few decades to figure out that my spiritual guides might be slightly sadistic bastards that thought leading me on wild goose chases was highly entertaining. Case in point: at age 27 I was guided to pack my life in the desert and follow love to a northern city only to be met with a full stop, u-turn and a “Just kidding! Hang in there for seven months in this new location and your work will take you to your next stop which we aren’t going to tell you about until you’re seriously questioning all your life choices! It’ll be great! Trust us!” See? Sadistic.

I sat still. Miserably. Heartbroken. But then the next stop did put me on a path that held a pretty clear route for three more decades. Until the brain melting happened.

So, there I was ten years ago, at my kitchen table in East Lansing; charred bits of my old life flaking off me; writing like a mad woman on the wall I had painted into a giant chalkboard for big ideas. It was handy for menu planning, thought processing, doodling and list making. It’s too easy to lose the post-it notes or the 37th spiral notebook you write the big ideas in, but you’d have to be Criss Angel to lose a wall. So there you go.

New Life Goals!

Uh… Happiness? Nah. Too vague. Success? At what? And really, isn’t “success” the achievement of a singular goal? Then you set up a new hurdle to jump. Screw that. This brain exfoliation went on for a while.

Until I ran into a thought that stopped the brain leakage. “What the hell do I actually want now?” Staring at the doodles, finally, some strong words shouldered their way to the front of my burned brain.

Yahtzee!

The first word was COMMUNITY.

I wanted a real community of friends and neighbors who I could interact with, create with, commiserate with on whatever shenanigans we would get up to. I had lived in that house in that college town for two decades and for reasons that no longer matter, I had only connected with a handful of people. Those were lonely years. And I was done with that.

The second strong word was MOVE. Five years prior, I had set a deadline for a decision to be made for the years ahead and if the spouse hadn’t come up with a viable plan to relocate somewhere that I had a say in selecting, then I was going to make the choice and he could come along or not. Afterall, I had uprooted my life three times at this point, each time moving for his work that took me farther and farther away from a location where any of my eclectic skill sets were viable career choices.

Ten years ago, it was clear that I needed to get out a metaphorical machete and start clearing a path to where I was supposed to be. It was a true winter of the soul where I had retreated, hibernating and trying to keep the delicate seeds of dreams alive while I let my listening stretch out again to those sadistic guide bastards to hear where I needed to move next.

NORTH. That was the word. I don’t think there are any coincidences because I know how those sneaky bastards work, but I had two simultaneous invitations to go north for visits from two women I’d known for years who both lived at the tops of two Michigan Peninsulas; one in the Keweenaw and the other in the Leelanau. They did not know each other so three guesses who set this up.

Why the hell not? I packed my car and hit the road to Copper Harbor. I had a great visit with my friend and the miles on the road alone helped air out my head. The morning of my departure from her house, I sat alone on the dock with my coffee and threw out to the Universe a request for a sign to let me know if our communication line was open so I could pick up the next bread crumb they tossed on my path. I did not see a bird fly over, but as I raised my cup towards my mouth, a feather dropped right into it with a satisfying plunk. Hilarious. Message received. As Ellie in the book Contact frantically reported to the control room team, “we are good to go!”.

Next stop Northport. I had some very interesting days in this tiny town and I met a lot of people and already had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time I visited. Sitting at the donut shop before hitting the road, my friend asked what I saw myself doing next, and I said I wanted to create gatherings where people can celebrate and learn and interact with their community. She pointed across the street and said that building was for sale. We walked over and got a tour from the owners who were outside tending plants. The very second I stepped into the ballroom, everything that was twisted and broken in my soul straightened out and said “THIS”. THIS is my future.

It still took another three years to bring together all the wiggly bits and pieces to finally take over this building and another seven years to become one with this beautiful business in a lovely town with a real community of friends and neighbors, but it happened. Ten long freaking years.

So, the moral of this story is that when your life explodes and your brain melts, it’s a really good time to reopen your communication channels with Sadistic Bastards Are Us. I mean your spiritual guides. Let them lead you on a merry chase as they move you closer to your own next step. The golden part is just over that hill with the steep incline, razor wire, fire ants and random lightning strikes. Come on! It’ll be fun! And ten years from now you’ll look back and laugh.

A word from the Patron Saint of Sadistic Bastards-

“Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forward” Soren Kierkegaard

Can I just say that the Toon Me App is ridiculously fun? The self portrait image at the top of the article is from 2012, taken in my kitchen in East Lansing, next to my chalkboard wall. The other images are from Toon Me’s portal access to the Faerie Realm.

If you are a first time visitor to this site…

So, weird format. Right? Let me explain. If this is your first time here, you are entering on Day 24 of the National Poetry Writing Month challenge: 30 Poems In 30 Days. The blog site doesn’t look like this May to March. Just April while NaPoWriMo is raging around the globe. Look it up. It’s a thing.

It’s my third year participating. In the past, I have participated as a “Panster”. That’s where you have no idea what the heck will come of out your head and you slap it down as it arrives. This year, I am trying out the “Planner” format and I’ve put my very own twist on it.

I am playing with a Verbiage & Distillation recipe where I “show my work”- writing down the thought cloud that comes before the poem so you can see how I got to where I ended.

I do a lot of cooking and liqueur making where I have to go from a bunch of whacky ingredients down to the essense of all of them in a single taste. My best libation so far- Camp Fire, a bourbon infused with maple and New Mexican Morita Smoked Chili Peppers. Sounds strange but it’s been fun to watch people go through all the faces as they identify its components just as the chili pepper starts to cook your mouth in a really good way. Then they ask for another pour. {Insert sounds of cheering here}

I try and write that way too. Gathering all matter of extraneous thoughts and distilling them down to the best part. Just like in the movie The Holiday, when Jack Black’s character Miles said to Kate Winslet’s character Iris before he played the piece of music he wrote for her, “I used only the good notes…”

Yeah, and I paint my recycled bottles with nail polish as a hobby. Hey, at least I’m not collecting string or gray eyebrow hairs like Nathan Fillion.

Poetry! Cosmic Detention or Contemplating the Universe Beneath a Dark Sky. And No, I’m Not High

Cosmic Detention or Contemplating the Universe Beneath a Dark Sky. And No, I’m Not High

Maybe-

the reason we haven’t had a recent visit from extraterrestrials

is because we just aren’t ready for them.

Maybe

this planet is a giant playpen

with high sides on our technology

so we won’t climb out

and stick our fingers

into the

Socket Of Creation

and break it

Maybe

we need a few more millenia

to winnow out our aggression

and our massive egos

before the Galactic Babysitters

will consider taking us

on a deep space field trip

Maybe

they already left behind

a whole lot of evidence of their earlier visits-

You know,

before humanity grew into

an out of control

raging

hormonal cluster of adolescents

who perpetuate the myths

that only males should rule the planet

and colors should be sorted into

keep

and

discard piles-

and myths like animals are food

and that one group’s religious superhero

could beat up another groups religious superhero

Maybe

many light years out

there’s a perimeter warning that reads:

RESTRICTED AREA;

INHABITANTS CANNOT BE TRUSTED TO MAKE GOOD CHOICES

They’re right you know.

We aren’t ready

So here we sit

drumming fingers on our desks

waiting for the door to open

that let’s us out of Cosmic Detention

I Knew That…

So, back in 1991, big things were happening. The Soviet Union took the first steps to disband the USSR. Yeah. So, now they are trying to put it back together, but hey, “A” for initial effort. The Internet was made available for commercial use and the number of computers “online” reached 1,000,000. The Dead Sea Scrolls were unveiled, and cyclone in Bangladesh killed 200,000 souls. Ah. You forgot about that. Sadly, me too.

Smaller things happened too. I was writing a regular column then for iCE Magazine in the Ft. Lauderdale Sun Sentinel. It was called Karmic Soup and I reviewed films, books, workshops and new technologies in the Woo-Woo realm of metaphysics. I enjoyed the heck out of that gig. I got to interview some amazing people like Dr. Brian Weiss; a pioneer in past life regression. Edgar Mitchell, the Apollo 14 astronaut who returned to Earth with a whole new thought about what’s “out there”. My favorite was The Amazing Kreskin. I was given a twenty minute time slot with him and when his agent pointed to his watch to call time’s up, he waved him away and we spent two hours talking and laughing. I still get Christmas cards from him.

On a more personal level, I was starting to cook some fiction in my head while I also did intuitive readings and was a part of a fantastic channeling circle. Yes. I did channeling. No. It’s not dangerous. It’s akin to meditating out loud. Trance channel and author, Kevin Ryerson, once said (through one of his guides) that praying is talking to God and meditating is listening to God. Brilliant. And I assume that God would have far more interesting things to say to us than we do to It/He/She.

Today, I was going through one of those scary boxes where you stash crap in hopes of one day organizing it. In among the paperclips, sketches, building plans and writing samples, I found a “list” that I had channeled on some random day in 1991. It was so simple and straight forward that I filed it in the DUH category of my “keep this ‘cuz you might want to use it someday” box.

The list isn’t going to cure cancer but it actually could create world peace if everyone followed each point. Really. No fooling.

I have a slew of things that I’ve written down; big ideas and such. A year or five would pass and there that thing would appear out in the world because someone else had the same thought and actually took the time to do something with it while mine was fermenting in the DUH box. Ask my family. They’ve been witness to dozens of moments when our mouths fell open as we saw the very thing in the DUH box on TV.

Anyway, it’s twenty seven years later, but here is A Plan For Living. Needless to say, the advice herein was mostly forgotten over time, but now I am printing this out and I’ll look at it often to see if I can actually do what I wrote.

Thank you Highest Teachers & Guides. Don’t give up on me. I’m a little slow, but eventually … I get it.

a plan for living

Not Helping

Actual exchange this morning while out with my dog.

Other: “Wow. she’s really showing her age. How old is she?”

Me: “Uh…Seven.”

Other: “Yeah. That’s about as long as they live. Oh, well.”

Me:

I say nothing..aloud. If I said what was going through my head at the moment I’m pretty certain that Other’s head would have exploded. Instead I patted my dog and turned back towards the house. In my head, aside from the tirade of profanity that was creeping up my collar, I was thinking, I hope like hell she never volunteers to be a grief counselor. So not helping.

I’ve known Other for a couple decades and there hasn’t been any signs of dementia or other disorder that might cause her to blurt out any unfiltered thought that pops into her head. That leaves one conclusion. Terminal rudeness.

Imagine this line of thinking if we adjust the scenario with one exchanged detail…

Me: “Wow, your mom’s really showing her age. How old is she now?”

Other: “Eighty nine.”

Me: Shaking my head on an exhale. “Yeah, that’s about as long as they live. Oh, well.”

You see the problem. Apparently, on her planet, ours was a normal exchange. I don’t want to live on her planet. I don’t even want to visit there.

I know my dog is getting older. I know Great Danes don’t have as long a life as smaller dogs. No shit, Sherlock. Just let me bathe in the bubble of *happy dog time* that I do have… And I swear to god, if you say one rude thing after she’s gone, I am egging your house on the hottest day of the year.

There. I feel better. Now, THAT helped.

People of Earth! This is who won all the online debates…

I made this for anyone who needs it. You’re welcome. Copy and paste into asinine debate areas and message threads.

People of Earth

This debate has been resolved.

There is no further need to post your own

personal opinions on this topic

as they are now irrelevant.

The final word on this topic has been decided by:

(Select one or all that apply)

The _____________ religion,

The ____________ political party,

The ____________ gender,

Ms./Mr./Mrs. _______________; a self-proclaimed genius.

Thank you for your participation.

This resolution is now International Law.

You may return to your lives.

Move along…

There is nothing to see here.

∞Mdh2015∞

Defining a Villain or a Politician…or Both

I’m doing some research on crafting a better villain for my fiction and I saw this poster; a cheat sheet of attributes that make a character a villain. The more of these they have the more villainous they are.

Here’s the thing; I got about seven into this list of 100 and I had to stop and ask myself if this was a description of politicians and corporate giants. I’d expect their high school year book achievements to read this way if they were honest. Go ahead. Give the list a look-see and be aware of whose face pops up as you go.

Is it any wonder that people have such a deep seated distrust of our “elected” officials? I use the term elected loosely because I don’t think that purchasing a position by out spending your candidate is an election. That is called an auction.

It makes you stop and think when out of 100 Villainous Traits more than half can accurately describe the people we have to rely on to decide the fate of our economy, our national safety and if you have a vagina, the privacy of our health care choices.

I think I empathize with Loki better than most members of Congress.

Happy Friday

I’m A Little Busy

What do you do when you’re about to begin a huge kitchen renovation project?

You also start writing a new book. Of course you do.

For the past several years I have been watching from the bleachers as writers got down there on the floor and dug in for the NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) challenge: 50,000 words in 30 days. Start day- November 1. End day- November 30. That’s not really a novel at 50G’s. More like a novella. But there’s no rule that you can’t write over 50,000. So I am. Writing over the amount that is.

It’s day thirteen of NaNoWriMo 2014, and I am currently 24,005 words into a brand new, adult paranormal romance novel. It’s happening, Writing in the early morning hours and late afternoons. Touching the Bones, is coming into focus and I am really having fun writing these characters.

It’s happening, in spite of my Olympic levels of distraction; ordering materials, fixtures, furniture and all it takes to transform a 1933 kitchen into something less; Katherine Hepburn stars in Little Women and more, well, me. Right now.

There have been three families before us living in this old house, and we’ve been here twenty two years. We’ve lived with the original pale yellow and black accent tile that looks like a diner Billie Holiday might have frequented for three in the morning breakfast’s with the band members.

A few years ago, an elderly woman and her friend were walking past the house while I was outside. She stopped to tell me that she had lived in our house when she was a child. I invited her in and found myself watching her face as she moved, room to room, lost in memories held in these walls for eighty years. She noted the tile in the kitchen being the same and most of the other features typical in an old Midwestern house; laundry shoots from the second floor, milk door that opens to outside to the drive way, small alcove in the front hall for the telephone-back when folks had only one.

As she stood in the doorway of the master bedroom, her hand flew to her heart and she whispered, “This was my parent’s room.” My full laundry basket on the floor suddenly seemed to defile the now, sacred space. As she left, she touched the Brass door knocker on the front door. I had painted the old door gold on both sides; for golden opportunities every where you look.She asked if I knew about the knocker. I didn’t. She said that back in the day, door knockers let people know if there was a specific crafts person or professional person living there-like a business shingle. This knocker meant a doctor lived here; her father. I had no idea and I’ve seen that thing every day for two decades.

It makes me feel a little bad as we take crowbars and hammers to the pale yellow and black tile that’s stood guard all this time in that old kitchen. But not bad enough to stop whacking it into dust and getting excited about the brand new space that I will [finally} have where I can create my food wonders.

So, as I am writing, writing, writing… I am also jumping at the loud sound of the doctor door knocker. UPS, delivering my new bronze pendant light.

My cat is hiding a lot. My dog is getting her cardio work in running to the door to greet/interrogate delivery and construction people; and I am falling into a schedule of trying to write before it all begins and after it ends…so… I’m a little busy. It’s a really good busy though.

And like all things that need to be born into the world or transformed, there is disruption. There is chaos. There is pain (hammer…thumb). There is exhaustion. There are tears. And then…there is something worth every minute and every stupid crappy thing it took to get there.

I’m smiling through the plaster dust and typing like a mad woman with band aides on my fingers.

Happy Fall.

Happy everything new.

On wings of words I fly into your heart…

P.S.: If you want to see a snip of the new novel, go to the home page and on the top you’ll see the appetizer menu- a taste of Touching the Bones. You can read chapter one there.

or click here……… https://wordninjagirl.com/appetizer-menu-a-little-taste-of-touching-the-bones/

What I’ve Seen…Reaching 60

Tomorrow is my birthday. It’s a big one. Sixty. At this auspicious moment I am wondering how the hell did this many years pass so ridiculously fast?

When my kids were young teens itching to do something they weren’t ready for yet, I would get out the construction tape measure. I would lay it out to 100 inches and chalk where their ages fell and how long their wait really was to participate in the activity that eluded them. Then I would point down the line to how many more times they could do that forbidden thing in the one hundred or so years they had to live their lives. It made the two inches from 14 to 16, when their driver’s license would come seem like the paltry eye blink that it was.

Looking back down my own line of numbers, already passed, I am embracing my million moments that drew together to make me. Gathered knowledge is just hoarding thoughts until you share it. For what it’s worth, these are some of the things I have seen.

Even if you grew up watching shows like Friends and assuming adulthood would be a constant coffee klatch with your across the hall neighbors, you will spend most of your time alone in this life. Unless you are conjoined, this is the way of the world. And if you can’t be at peace in your times of solitude, why in the hell would you think other people would be interested in spending time with you either? Learn shit. Get interested and then you will be interesting-to yourself and to others.

The greatest lesson for young teen abstinence should be the fact that the first person you get naked with will-in all likelihood-not be the last. With the exception of the four couples you will meet who are childhood sweethearts-you will swim into and out of tubs, ponds, raging rivers and oceans of love in all its forms until you find somewhere that becomes your place in the world. That’s where you will build your home- however early or late in life you find it and trying to pitch a tent anywhere else will give temporary shelter and nothing more.

When people close to you lash out it is usually because they want you to love them more than it appears you do. If you pay attention, people will tell you what they want-so listen.

Most people, even the most hardened among us, still have a soft, gooey center and if you are paying attention and listening you can figure out what they love. That is what made them gooey like that in the first place. If they showed you the gooey love, they shared the keys to their castle. Honor that.

There are seven billion people on this planet. When you are not famous, the statistical magic of finding one person who can see you for the blazing light you actually are is a gift rarer then the most expensive gemstone. Own that.

Real love never dies. It only changes shape to accommodate the way you live now.

The secret to happiness is this: figure out what you want and find a way to ask for it.

Love is your own personal experience. It sparks and blooms inside your own head-like a private revelation; a movie only you can see. Even if the object of your affection does not return your ardor with the same intensity or at all, never hold regret for having felt that feeling. To know what love feels like is like visiting the most beautiful place on Earth. Not everyone will go there in their lifetime but you have, and you can tell others what it feels like to stand in the center of all that beauty; what it is to see the blazing light of someone else and have it warm your soul even if it’s just for a moment. It will change you forever; no matter if life or death moves you far away from that other person, it will remain part of who you are now.

What I have seen while I have run, swam, played, danced, loved, fought, created, walked, crawled, bled, cried and laughed my way through the sixty years on planet Earth comes down to this: love. It always comes down to that. And on the last day I get in this life, it will still be about love; who I loved and who loved me.

That is where I have a cave of treasure like Aladdin. I remember all the love my heart has felt. It fills my pens, my brushes, my cooking pots and the large broken parts inside of me. It is my gold.

The Japanese have a practice called Kintsugi. It’s a ceramic pottery ritual where a beloved broken vessel is pieced back together with molten gold used like glue. It gathers the shattered parts together; making it whole again in a new and beautiful way.

Today, I will visualize all the love I’ve known as gold and let it fill the cracks and broken parts of me to make me whole like the day I was born only different…better. It will be my private gift to myself; the strengthening of my weak places. What I’ve seen in my sixty years has been a kaleidoscope of wonder and I am filled with anticipation as the curtain rises on the next act.

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