I’m writing more now than I have in 20 years. No exaggeration: in the mid-’90s, I was cranking stories out because I was a horny, imaginative, lonely college student brimming with a realized fascination. This fascination had been buried in shame for the previous 20 years, but with my first college-provided Internet account came access to Telnet, and with that came exposure to MUSE/MUSH destinations, which led to 3rd-person storytelling and naturally that led to size-fetish cybersex. My hunger for this, especially when it lay steaming on a plate right in front of me, overrode my shame and I had explicitly erotic scenarios in the computer lab that necessarily kicked my typing speed up to 110 wpm with 2% errors and left me with a little wet spot for the walk back to my dorm.

Those GTS sessions drove me to scavenge and assemble computer setups and upgrades so I could login from home, where I would commonly go 72 hours without sleep, cybersexing any willing giantess from anywhere in the world. Far, far too late did it occur to me to capture these conversations into .txt files, for which I’m still learning to forgive myself. These sessions and the ideas that spun off from them turned into stories I cranked out very rapidly in purple prose and with no editing. Even now, looking back at these, I’m appalled at all the words I was using whose definitions I was not clear on. But that never stopped me, and that’s the way it should be: write, write, fucking write more, heedlessly, feverishly. Plenty of time for editing later.

So yeah, a big burst of innovative (for me) writing in the late ’90s, then kinda drifting from it in the ’00s, and in the last few years I’ve returned to it. April ’16 I made my push for online presence and organization, learning who’s whom and what’s what. I made a couple key contacts who, by the fact of them, inspired me to write even more, and now, somedays, I feel like I have my own momentum. My big hangup was that I couldn’t write without an audience, even if it was imaginary. I couldn’t write a story in Word document, but I could create a lot in a blog… losing interest after around 50 entries, at which point I needed feedback, which I never got.

But now I think it’s different. I think these inspiring and supportive giantesses have built up my momentum to a point where I’m back in the fun of writing. It feels fun to write and I get anxious if I’m not creating. That’s the best place to be, writing for its intrinsic value. I might be close to that.

To that end, here’s a directory of categories of my flash fiction on my blog. So many different ways they can be grouped, and now they serve as a reminder of what I could be working on when I have a free moment, what’s deficient and needs attention, what’s uproarious fun for me (which leads to self-definition), and other things. Poke through, let me know what works, what’s missing, &c. Thank you for reading me.

One thought on “Barreling Through Inspiration

  1. This is reassuring to read, on a couple of levels. For the sake of length and endurance, I’ll only go into one.

    It’s good to know that you are enjoying your own writing. It’s good to know you’re having fun with something that should only yield a sort of happiness, a flavor of satisfaction, a brand of being-yourself-ness, even when it sprouts torment.

    I do hope you’ll forgive yourself for “losing” those .txt files, the same way I hope I’ll forgive myself for neglecting to rescue my own. I had the biography of my favorite giantess carefully mapped in there, and now I only recall glimpses of her, and how she came to be… although that magical moment when I discovered this, THIS, the thing that caused me to think I was losing my mind, was “nothing but” a fetish, something that had already been in the minds and sticky hands of thousands on the Internet, I will never forget. I could write about that with my fingers taped shut.

    Maybe one day we’ll be able to hook ourselves to a machine, and have our memories harvested, those ideas rescued word by word, and our writing enriched? by the earlier account of what we once were. In the meantime, we have a lot about which to write. I know you do.

    Dear Universe,

    You do anything to fuck this up, I’ll kill you myself.

    Regards,

    U

    Liked by 1 person

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