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strawburygrl feels
strawburygrl feels
I love my husband, my cat, music, movies, words, food, looking at nature.
I like sex; my computer; the internet; anime; science fiction; a woman's nice round ass; a man's thick shoulders; chocolate and fudge and brownies; hamsters, especially my peachy teddy bear Scampie; a crisp, clean, lined sheet of paper; the scent of vanilla; walking around barefoot; the color red; walking around barefoot; experiencing nature.
I want to feel safe and secure financially and emotionally; to see every anime that even slightly looks appealing to me; I want to meet Clive Barker, Greg Bear, Laurell K. Hamilton, and Anne Rice, preferrably over dinner, just the 5 of us; I want religious and racial persecutions to end and all world groups to find some way to live together peacably; I want gay lifestyles, sex, and marriage to be legal around the world; I want to love 40 pounds and have naturally maroon-colored hair; I want 4-foot-tall Lantana to overgrow the roses in my front yard, however pretty those silly victorianesque whiners are; I want to be able to dance, run, and bike without my knees creeking and begging to fall off my body; I want to never have a migraine again in my life; I want to be able to wear perfume again; I want people to respect my writing; I want to have a 2nd wedding where we dress up in Medeival attire and rent a castle; I want to have a baby; I want to adopt a kitten; I could really use a caramel milkshake right about now.
And yet, barely any of these things really gets me hot and bothered anymore in a spitfire kinda way. Ethan Hawk's voice is ringing in my ears, "and you will have no new travels, you will have no new passions, just one tedious day after another..." Or something like that.
The thing that comes closest to passion are my husband. The only times in my life I have cried from joy are because of him, and my realization that he's mine, he loves me, and despite being a fuck-up, he will remain mine. Then there's my cat. I was a sobbing mess about 48 hours ago because he'd turned his back on us and headed for the bush. It's got to be important if you cry about it, right?
Then there is my writing. I used to love to write. I used to dream of being a writer. I never really had any goal in mind for it, just that people would like what I wrote and I would be acknowledged for it. One of the nicest compliments my husband ever paid me wasn't even a compliment in his mind: he mentioned that he'd once imagined I would end up being wildly famous writing for sitcoms or somesuch. I had never, ever imagined writing for TV or film, so the idea looked so romantic in my eyes, and it really made me feel wonderful that even for a short moment in time someone thought I might have the talent and ambition to accomplish something so grand.
But somewhere in high school I achieved writer's block. I didn't write for years, with the exception of 2 short works of fiction for school my freshman year at Evergreen. Many years later, at the height of my insanity, I wrote 2 pieces of fantasies that I desperately wanted to become realities. A few years after that, becoming sane again because of drugs and falling back in love with my husband, I started rewriting my earliest passion: the novel I started when I was 11 and never finished. And got damn near finishing it when I got very, very bored with it. I think I reread it too many times. Because one of the primary reasons why I write is to please myself. I have masturbated many times to my own stories.
And I haven't written again until about a month ago, when I wrote a very short piece to serve as a follow up to one of the pieces I wrote in college. Having posted all of my fiction but that unfinished novel on DeviantArt, I then posted that short story, hoping all I needed to gain a following was to put something out there again to grab new people's eyes.
Not one person commented, not even 1 of my 4 regular readers.
I am convinced that my writing sucks. I watch my vocabulary go down hill with each passing year. As I've written for 2 years in this diary now, I believe my writing style has gotten worse rather than better. I used to like my quirky sentence structures and fondness for beginning sentences with the word "And". I used to think I was a good speller, had a somewhat competent grasp of the English language and grammar, as well as an interesting but dry sense of humor.
And now the thing that I had the most confidence in, even when I had almost no confidence in it at all because of writer's block, I have about zero to negative confidence in at the moment.
And yet. And yet, as I laid in bed an hour ago with a migraine composing the lists above, I realized that I still have a strong desire to be famous. On the list, the thing that most appealed to me, that made my skin start to tingle and my mind create interesting scenarios around, was my writing. In particular, this little dream I had when I started picking up readers here: that someone would stumble upon this diary, and I would be given a book deal or an offer to write a column in some newspaper or magazine. I was so thrilled at the thought of writing my own sex column. I could be like Dan Savage, but less cranky. Like Carrie on Sex in The City, except much more graphic. I would be a starlet. OK, maybe just a small one, with a couple hundred or thousand fans in a small region of the US or something. But STILL. People would read me and know my name and talk about me to their friends. Their friends may scratch their heads and wonder what the fuck they see in me, but STILL. I would be adored by a small, select, odd group.
Right now, that group is 47 members strong. Bah. It was 54 a month ago.
So here I am, finding a passion. A small way to triumph over mediocrity. I am going to try to increase my readership once more. I'm not really sure how. I have an idea or two, but I'm not sure how interesting they will prove. If YOU have any ideas, by all means, email or not or gbook-love me. I'd be thrilled to hear from you about anything at all, much less some guidance or advice on how to accomplish a little more with this space.
Goal: double readership in 8 weeks time. Possible? Who the fuck knows.
One important thing to note though, is that I know readership has gone down in large part due to my number of entries. That is because I write almost daily at my domain where people know my real name and thus for some reason no one visits AT ALL. So, I will continue to write there about the mundane, the mediocre, the daily. And from now on, this space will be reserved for SEX. Not necessarily mine, but definitely not about anything ordinary.
If this bothers you, I'm sorry. I believe most of you signed on for the sex anyway. The few of you that signed on for the personal, actually know my real name, and so should have access to my real-life blog. If for any reason you don't, let me know. If I trust you, I'll share that secret, and you can keep up with daily, mediocre me at my domain. Really though, only people listed under my favorites (present or past) should ask. I'm not going to give out my real life name to someone I've never even heard of before. Duh.
So watch this space. Hopefully the passion will not fizzle, and things will change. Hopefully for the better. Anyone know a good way to boost one's vocabulary? I subscribed to a word of the day mailing list, and I know all damned words so far. Bah!
ps: I've always felt badly removing people from my favorites, so badly that I never mentioned it here or to them the why. Mostly, it was because either they didn't update enough for my liking, or I just didn't have time to keep up with so many diaries. There were one or two that were so emotional, I just couldn't handle reading them anymore. I hated removing those the most. I felt like a wuss and a chicken. Anyway, never, ever have I felt any of you weren't up to standards or interesting or intelligent enough. I hope there's no bad blood between us. Feel free to write and ask about daily life and maybe we can connect again, or just ask for my domain so you can read in private.
Love to you all.
