Today is the tenth anniversary of NOW’s Love Your Body Day. I had a bunch of stuff I wanted to say on the subject, but I’m busy editing my novella, so I will share this essay I wrote for another website:
Role Models
A lesson in humility is walking down the street with a much younger and much thinner woman and feeling practically invisible as men of all ages stare at her. Thankfully, my ego can take it, but I can’t help but feel sorry for those men because they’re missing out on so much. No-- not me-- I’m not interested, but there is a veritable banquet of older women— radiant, passionate, sensual older women— just waiting to be sampled. Actually, I doubt they’re waiting for anything. Women of a certain age tend to take what they want without waiting for someone to give them permission.
On several occasions at the coffee shop where I go to write, I’ve noticed two older women in particular. The first is in her mid-sixties, a plump woman with ample curves that suggest fertility even though she is long past her childbearing years. Her hair is a shock of white, pinned back from her face. Long strands of that white hair often slip their confines to trail down her wrinkled cheeks. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles, as does her mouth. If I had to guess, I’d say she smiles a lot. Her waist is thick, probably in part from the rich desserts she orders with her black coffee. She wears clothes that border on frumpy, yet there is always something about her outfit that suggests a sensuality most people wouldn’t notice at first glance. Her skirts come below her knees, but she doesn’t wear stockings and her shoes are open-toed sandals that reveal a fresh pedicure. Her blouses are conservative, high-buttoned and in neutral colors, yet they’re often unbuttoned enough to reveal a hint of cleavage or a wayward bra strap in some not-so-neutral color as turquoise or hot pink. There is something about her smile-- playful, almost secretive, that makes me think she’s a satisfied woman—in all ways.
The other woman is younger than the first, probably mid-to-late fifties. Her hair is a dramatic shade of strawberry blonde, falling below her shoulders. The only makeup she ever wears is lipstick—some glossy shade of dark pink so that her hair and her lips are the first things you notice. She’s slightly thinner than the first woman, but the extra pounds she carries don’t weigh her down.. She often wears flowy, calf-length sundresses, sleeveless but with a high neck. They’re brightly colored, unlike the first woman’s wardrobe, but not what I’d call sexy. The last time I saw her, however, she revealed a lot of leg when she sat down because of the thigh-high slit running up the side of her purple dress. She didn’t pull and tug at the fabric to cover what she’d bared. In fact, she always seems very comfortable in her own skin— and in revealing it. Like the first woman, she smiles a lot and her laughter is that easy, quiet laugh of someone who is at peace with herself. She’s American (or, at least has no discernible accent), but on two occasions I’ve heard snippets of her cell phone calls—one was in Spanish, the other in French.
These two women captivate me. There is something about them, some intangible quality so rarely seen in women of any age. Though they bear the wrinkles and spots and sags and pounds of age, they seem ageless. I wonder what has made them that way, what experiences and philosophies they have embraced in order to be so at ease with themselves. I wonder if they’ve always been this way or if they grew into it. So many women seem to be in a constant state of perpetual unease, uncomfortable in their own bodies and hiding from the world beneath baggy clothes and hunched shoulders. Not these two women. They have a presence about them that makes them impossible to ignore. They are luscious, vibrant women and they know it. Maybe that’s what makes them seem so much more alive than other women— they know, and love, who they are.
Spending fifteen minutes watching women like this is so much more valuable than reading women’s magazines with airbrushed covers and diet articles. This is something I can aspire to be. This is something I want to be.
One last thing relating to body image: this educational Illustrated BMI Categories photo set by Kate Harding provides an interesting visual for those terms society deems ugly, non-sexual and unhealthy. Do the terms “morbidly obese” and “triathlete” belong in the same description? Apparently, they do.
I’ve been polishing my resum鮠 Not that I’ll be using it anytime soon, but I can dream. Interestingly enough, despite a variety of jobs (ten or eleven at last count) and a college education, I’m not really qualified to do all that much. At least not anything that pays well. Correction, I’m not willing to do the jobs that would pay well (and by “well” I mean a living wage that would allow me to be self-supporting without having to subsist on Ramen). I do not wish to be a an administrative assistant, a teacher or a retail manager. I do not want to work in a cubicle, be required to wear pantyhose or spend my days shuffling papers someone else put on my desk. I do not want to sacrifice my soul to put a roof over my head. Is that too much to ask?
The sad, ironic thing is, I’m bright enough to do the jobs that pay well. Accountant, easily. Banker, definitely. Mid-level manager of a major corporation, with my eyes closed. Marketing and sales, please don’t insult my intelligence. Attorney, sure. Psychologist, I’d be getting paid for a talent I already use. I don’t have the math skills to be an engineer or the stomach to be a doctor, but there are plenty of well-paying jobs that I could do if I wanted to (would that I had pursued those areas in college rather than the ubiquitous English degree that has served me so very well-- insert maniacal laughter here--).
The key, of course, is the phrase “if I wanted to.” I have never subscribed to the notion of money equaling happiness. I cannot fathom doing a job that I didn’t at the very least like. Work time is too big a part of life not to enjoy it. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done what I had to do to pay the bills and sometimes that has involved juggling different jobs I didn’t love. My survival instinct is greater than my need for job satisfaction. Still, I’ve never had a job that I hated. I’ve grown to dislike some of the jobs I’ve had, but every job started out as something exciting, new and challenging.
Back when I got my palm read in DC, I laughed when the fortune teller said I would be the head of a large company. It is so far removed from anything I would ever want to do, she lost all credibility in my eyes (not that she had a lot in the first place, given her tacky fur coat). Truth is, I could be in charge of a company if it was something that interested me. But the idea in general doesn’t appeal to me and no amount of money in the world could make that kind of job fulfilling.
I don’t have to be self-supporting and money is not a huge issue right now, but it’s a big enough issue to prevent me from returning to writing full-time with no idea whether I’ll be able to make fifty or five hundred dollars a month (let’s just say I’d be buying Ramen instead of roast beef, if my last stint at writing full-time is any indication). So, the resum頩s getting a little update in the hopes that when the time comes (bets are now being taken on when that time will be) I can make “worthless degree in English” sound like something desirable. Here’s hoping the next job will be interesting enough to sustain my spirit-- if not my lifestyle-- until I feel like I can commit myself to writing with no other source of income.
If I can’t write anything worth reading, the least I can do is change my banner so it looks like something exciting is going on here. One day, when I have the money, I will let the chicks at BlogMoxie design a beautiful new layout worthy of the fascinating tale that is my life (please note the sarcasm there). Until then, you’re stuck with my rudimentary design skills which are coloring-book quality, at best. I do know how to amuse myself, though.
So, I am mostly recovered from The Incident TM. We shall not speak of it again. I’m wired on coffee and should be spinning this energy into a tale of danger and intrigue (starring the redhead above), when instead I’m doing anything but.
I hit the bookstore tonight. Ahh… what angst and heartbreak exists there. Perusing the shelves of endless books written by countless authors and none of them me. Crushing, I tell you. I’m conceited enough to know I’m as worthy of shelf space as, say, Dr. Phil and yet I’ve been beaten down by rejection so many times I have to pause and wonder if it’s worth it.
I wrote 950 pages the year after my first little novel sold. That’s roughly a quarter of a million words. I wrote my little heart out, trying to sell another book. I didn’t sell a single word. Zip. Nothing. Reject. Try again. Do over. Over and over and over again. Talk about an experience in humility. It’s enough to bring a tear to your eye, isn’t it? Yeah, yeah.
Strangely enough, I’m still writing. Whether it’s a triumphant story of perseverance and talent or a cautionary tale of failure and despair remains to be seen. But I’ll keep at it until they pry my cold, dead fingers from the keyboard. Why? Because back there in that last paragraph I wrote “my first little novel” without even thinking about it. Only someone truly in love with writing (or truly stupid?) would write “first” in the same sentence mentioning 950 unsold pages of blood, sweat and tears. I guess I must believe it’s worth the rejection and the insecurities and the depression and the drinking problem (well, not yet… but we all know it’s only a matter of time) and the sheer terror of failing yet again, in the hopes that I’ll once again be among the countless authors taking up space at Barnes and Noble. Otherwise I wouldn’t write “first,” right?
Yeah, it’s worth it. That kind of blissed out nirvana is worth whatever suffering it takes to get there. I just need to remind myself of that more often.
I know it may seem like I’m putting an awful lot of my life out here on the internet for public consumption. I suppose I am, in a sense. These thoughts and musings I share are very personal, whether they are about my writing or my emotions or my relationships. Yet, this is only a snapshot of my life, not the full screen technicolor version. It can’t be, for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is this: I may allow you a peek into how my mind works (scary thought, eh?) or share some aspect of my life, but you will never know who I am just by reading what I write.
On any given day I may write about a deeply personal event from my past or something so mundane as the lyrics to a stupid song. This is not a confessional or a place to air my grievances against anyone in my life. I am not Catholic and if I have a problem with you, you’ll know it. Still, to be a writer means to make yourself vulnerable-- whether you journal on the internet or you write fictional stories in paperback novels. There is a piece of me in everything I have ever written and the very best of what I’ve written has been starkly honest. Every time I sit down to write something for this page, it is a test: can I tell my story honestly or will I try to protect myself by holding back?
Honesty is not something most people think of when they’re reading fiction. Hell, honesty isn’t something we think of when we read most anything. And yet, honesty is what it’s all about. Not honesty in terms of whether the writer got her facts right, but honest in the sense that it took something out of the writer to write the piece. If the words don’t make the writer laugh, cry or wince in embarrassment, it’s doubtful the reader will have any reaction. If the story or the article or the journal entry isn’t honest, the reader will know. If the writer isn’t fully vested in what she is writing, her words won’t ring true. Writing honestly is harder than learning how to avoid comma splices. Unlike the occasional comma splice, writing that is false will kill a reader’s interest before he reaches the end of the page.
I didn’t know what I was going to write about when I sat down tonight. That’s honest. There are a couple of personal things on my mind right now that I don’t choose to share. That is also honest. Whether what I’ve written to this point seems sincere or simply pretentious is for you to decide.
Honestly.
I write about sex, but this isn’t a sex blog. I mention this because a lot of people are discovering my site using keywords like sex and erotica. I’m sure they are sadly disappointed to show up here and find me talking about books, poetry, John Kerry and insomnia, among other things. That is not to say I will never talk about sex. It’s likely to come up because a) I write erotica, b) there are many issues that interest me with regard to sexuality and c) I happen to really like sex.
Having said all that, I’ve noticed the trend in sex blogs has exploded in the past few years. Essentially, sex weblogs are online journals written by real people about real experiences. At least, that’s what they claim. I think there is a hefty dose of creative license being taken in some cases as the writers blend fact and fiction to satisfy their readers as well as their own exhibitionistic tendencies. It’s like leaving your windows open for the neighbors to watch and making sure you put on a good show.
I’ve read several weblogs over the years that were either mostly or entirely about sex. Some are slick and well-written, some are achingly personal and human, some read like poorly conceived teenage fantasies. It’s a great big internet and there’s room for everyone, but I don’t really get why sex bloggers do it. For one thing, they almost always have to maintain their anonymity in order to write about the things they do. Remaining anonymous is difficult when you’re talking about your personal life. Names have to be changed, places and situations have to be altered, and still you run the risk of discovery.
For another thing, their hard work and writing skills are getting them nothing but a lot of hits on their web page, a need for ever increasing bandwidth and probably a fair amount of kinky fan mail. Oh, sure, there is the occasional book contract, as I mentioned regarding Belle de Jour. But for the most part, these naughty little weblogs are labors of love. It seems like an awful lot of work when some of these writers are good enough to get paid for their efforts.
Among my other writing credits, I write erotica. In fact, the bulk of my fiction writing for the past few years has been erotica-- straight and lesbian. It’s fun and challenging to write about sex in a way that’s new and arousing. People have become so jaded by the internet and cable (not to mention the Super Bowl), it’s a kick to be able to write something that provokes a response. That’s true of anything I write, actually. And while I realize the word ‘erotica’ is equivalent to the word ‘porn’ to a lot of people, I’m writing about more than sex when I write erotica. My erotica is about relationships, identity, acceptance and love. Sure, it’s also about sex. Passionate, arousing, life-affirming sex. We should all be so lucky to have the kind of sex lives I write about.
Though I will occasionally write about sex and promote my erotica without apology, this will never be a sex blog. It’s doubtful you will ever see my fiction here unless it’s an excerpt to promote my work. And I won’t be writing any sexy vignettes about what I did last night or what I want to do this weekend. Not because the topic of sex embarrasses me, but because I choose not to be anonymous on the web. I prefer to give you a balanced picture of me and I try to be as honest as I can; but just like in my real day-to-day life, there are things I won’t share with everyone.
I want people to know who I am and read what I write. Sex is very important to me, but it is only part of who I am-- and part of what I write.
Life. Love. Writing. Friendship.
Sex. Books. Movies. Travel. Politics. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Rants. Raves. Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Some names have been changed, some stories have been embellished. Thanks for stopping by and beware of the dog. Read more...
