Why Write?

The world grieves.

Yet, here I sit, 10:17 p.m. Sunday night, writing.  I had a brief discussion via email with a fellow writer, who feels much as I do, like being done with a world that lets such cruelty stab us in our soft and fragile hearts.

Why write?

Because we also need to embrace life. To get through the grief, the rage, the unmitigated horror of the world. I do that in a variety of ways in my vanilla life…as an earthy pagan, by going out and standing in the sleet tonight, and feeling connected to something deeper than myself. Some forces at work, not for good nor for evil, but just energy, moving through the area, heading elsewhere.

There’s been a lot of negative energy hasn’t there…and deservedly so. We recoil at an act so heinous we cannot comprehend the why of it.

Where is the solace in this?

For me, it is sitting here at my keyboard, and writing. I’ve woken up several mornings with lovely story lines in my head, and because I’m so busy with work and family…they haven’t been written down, even as a quick “note to self” and have blown away, more energy moving through the area.

Why write?

Because my nipples are under stress. Because He dishes out a hit of pain to me, and no orgasm tonight -thank you very much, (not) Master.  And I am reminded that I am part of something deeper than my pain. I’m connected to Him.

And through Him, to love.

Love is a force that moves through space and time…and my pain….it connects me to Him, though we are miles apart. He tasks me to pull that connection tight so that there is no slack there, grounding me.  And through my pain, my physical pain, I am freed to give voice to the sexual thoughts that continue in my head.

It reminds me that though I grieve, I live.

I breathe.

I weep, but still, I am a sexual creature.

You may think this is terrible of me (though if I recall correctly, many times after tragedy people reconnect to life through sex, and many children are born 9 months after heinous events) and I’m sorry for you if you do.

I am a sensual, sexual, emotional creature.

Sure, I could sit in front of the television and become mesmerized by the facts, the faces, the statistics….but why do I need to know what caliber of bullets were used to murder? I couldn’t tell the difference between a bullet caliber and rabbit pellets….we are super-saturated with information and to protect my own sanity, I’m filtering it down, stopping the flow, and retaining my personhood.




So you will see more sexual stories here. I will be that place you can come to and escape the media hype (and it is all hype now, really) and remember that you, too, are a sensual, sexual creature.

I hope you find some solace here.

Love and peace,



(a small vignette is all I have time for tonight, dear pervy friends…but sometimes a wee touch is better than naught, eh?)

hands curled into fists

sweat beading her forehead, hair plastered in wild random abandon along her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, glued with tears, with perspiration, with cum

shivers running across her shoulders at the gentle touch along the curve of her ass, following the curling line of swollen welt

the rush of air against her skin, raising goosebumps as he steps away

the quiver of anticipation

the shock of sound in the silent room, the rush of air from a quick-drawn breath and the mewling cry as pain registers…

the flush of release as air expels in a whoosh, as flesh heats, and pain and lust collide


11 thoughts on “Why Write?

  1. You are right about the negative. If we do nothing but dwell on it, the monsters win. I too have been writing. I’m 10 posts ahead with more to come. As with every tragedy, we must go on. We must live, and we must love. Grief has it’s place. So does life.

    ps… loved your teasing tidbit.

    1. thanks for your insightful comment, and your kind words…it was just a tidbit, but it kind of opened me.



  2. I also agree with you, Nilla. In fact, I started writing my first serious work, a fan fiction story based on a crossover between two anime series, the week my father passed away. I had five days bereavement leave but no way to return home. I sat around the house for half a day and something just told me to start writing. By the time I went back to work, I had at least the first three chapters of the first draft finished. Writing helped me deal with my grief and my frustration at not being able to say goodbye to my Dad.

    1. Good for you for being able to channel that pain…I wish I’d been writing when I lost my Mom…that was many years ago, and I remember the grief as being overwhelming…writing would have been a great outlet. Thanks for sharing such a personal glimpse of your life.



  3. My heart goes to the parents. (My children are also in grade school.) The best we can do, I suppose, is to spread around the good in our lives as much as we can before the next gun guns one of *us* down. *Sigh* On a “lighter note”, when my number’s up, I fully expect to see the grim reaper in all his glory. I’m going to be bitterly disappointed if I don’t. I want first class treatment – the scythe, the black robe, the skeletal hands, the dusty breath under the unfathomably deep, dark hood. A dry wind scattering the rusty leaves. That’s the right way to go and after a full life. They’ll call it a heart attack, but I’ll know the truth. The grim reaper’s scythe is unerring. That’s the way death should be: beautiful, mythic and poetic — and life. 🙂 Thanks Nilla.

    1. You got me back on the roll, I think with your lovely piece yesterday…(find it here, pervy readers: http://eroticwriter.wordpress.com/2012/12/16/pattycake/ )

      I love the image of your end of days, actually. Let us go gracefully forward, feeling no regrets for what we didn’t do in this life…and don’t be surprised if the G.R. is ….occupied…I’ll keep him busy for a while while you go and write from the dark side… 🙂


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