I’ve been writing more here for reasons.
The fact is, I need an audience. It doesn’t have to be a huge audience, and they don’t even have to be real—if I can convince myself there is one person who’s interested in what I’m putting out here, or if there is somewhere a distant receptor that could possibly pick up on my signal, then I can motivate myself to update my blog more frequently. Notes, stories, curation, whatever: I can produce content as long as I think there’s a point to doing so, a motivation beyond my own entertainment.
My stats, of course, tell another story, but hope springs eternal. Hope defies all reason and evidence.
Hope runs steadfastly contrary to common sense, logic, facts, demonstrable trends…
In conversation with a friendly giantess, I realize I’ve gotten a few things wrong. I’ve been calling myself a “giantess erotica writer,” but when I look at my oeuvre, very few stories actually incorporate the woman of titanic proportions. Mainly I write about tiny men, or regular-sized men who get shrunken, who are then subject to the vagaries and caprices of normal-sized women. That makes me a shrink-fetish writer.
For that matter, am I using “erotica” correctly? I read one woman’s opinion that romance was “sex + love” and erotica was “sex + danger.” But that may just be opinion…
I’ve dabbled, to be sure: I attempted Giga GTS with the Chronicles of Lovely Mari. The first chapter was a flirtation with hard science as I ballparked weight and velocity and estimated the damage done by a miles-high giantess in our world. There’s a sect of people very into that, and they began to register polite complaint when attention shifted from cataloguing the gross damage wreaked to the drama of the little Tinies who’d stowed away on Mari and taken up residence in her enormous home. Fair enough: I said I’d write Giga stories, and then Giga became tertiary to the plot I was actually interested in.
There was a period of time, in palaver with my Goddess, when I was challenged to write a credible Cruel story. I didn’t think I had any interest in this: I had no idea how I could create an interesting lead character who was a gleeful, soulless sociopath. But I wanted to develop my writing chops, expand my boundaries, that kind of thing. Within a week I had hacked out three rough drafts for three very different stories… one of which met the approval of my Goddess. I consulted with some Cruel writers of my acquaintance and got their opinions as well, which were valuable and edifying.
And if I look honestly at my own work, there’s more than a measure of cruelty in some of those stories. The feral Tiny taunted by the drunk husband in “Lords of the Ternakan”, the Tiny chewed in half by a Ukrainian webcam girl, and the means by which William Sowder is escorted off stage in “Special Arrangements”. I’ve written about cruelty often, I don’t know why I’m so precious on this point. Why can I write about it if I don’t like to read it? Maybe it’s related to how I take much pleasure in doing my own gory makeup for a zombie costume, yet I can’t look at a car accident or photos of surgery or autopsy.
So I claim to be a Gentle writer, but I’m fully capable of Cruel; I claim to be a Giantess writer, but most of my male protags are Mini, or my female protags have Shrunken men in their thrall. Anything else? Any other way I’ve falsely represented myself, or any other self-delusions I nurture? I’ll have to be on the lookout for any other inconsistencies: not only do I want people to know what they’re getting into, with me, but I want to send out the right signal for any birds of my feather.