There are these houses we enter with picture perfect placement of trendy furniture and spare but carefully selected items that echo the muted palette and the space feels more like a movie set with a false back wall that leads to a parking lot and not the rest of a real home.
Conversations tight and timed like scripted moments of insta ready scenes and photo ops for the digital scrap book so it looks like easy flow but it’s really a regimented schedule of check list items meeting standardized expectations of life on Earth.
And then there are these homes that start somewhere down the road in a community that reaches in all directions with neighbors who know their names and as we enter the dwelling we’re met with a colorful cacophony of motion and stillness and smells of plants and herbs and flowers, pets and perfume and leaves whirling outside the screen door that’s been left ajar to enjoy this rare fall warmth before the snows.
And all around the space is proof of life with art by the person who also picked that sofa draped in soft blankets and squishy pillows that cocoon us. And if you reach just a little there will be a cozy cup of tea at your hand and a plate of cookies baked this morning just for you because they hoped you would stop by to nest a moment and share a piece of this wild day as it unfolds before you.
the places we can send our parents, children and siblings and spouses and neighbors and co-workers and anyone else who we don’t understand.
the people who are old and have broken parts inside their minds and bodies
Those glitching, fucked up people whose operating programs were adapted along the way so they could survive in difficult situations
There shouldn’t be anyone out there who doesn’t do things the right way,
There should only be people who use the words that I want to hear exactly the way I want to hear them and exactly when I want to hear them
It doesn’t matter how or why they were broken.
It only matters how they are when they are in front of me.
I don’t need to know the story of their lives.
I just need them functioning the way I want them to, right now.
Where are those damn factories?
There should be places where we can send them to wipe their hard drives and install a new, clean and efficient operating program so that I can finally, have the person that I want standing in front of me, saying what I want to hear the way I want to hear it and doing the things I want them to do exactly the way I want them done.
I’ll hold it up off your shoulders so you can get a full breath in and a little peace as you start to figure out
the next step in your journey
to whole and calm
Or I can be your guide if you tell me what you’ve packed in your duffle that you drag through life. You’ll need a swimsuit because we will be leaving the safe shore and diving deep.
We will be on the hunt for signs and turns that you followed and we will sit in discussion until something wiggles loose from the tight bundle of shame sticks that you keep like secret offerings.
You have used your finest ribbon to wrap those, as if those were the hallmark moments of your life and not the thousand times it all went perfectly and love and magic flew from your soul out into the world touching everyone who witnessed your glory.
You’ll go home with words and songs and a new map to navigate what lies ahead
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.
Word Ninja Girl 