Running Away from the Sad #books #depression #amreading

A post by Giselle Renarde

My life's been overwhelmingly eventful lately, so I haven't been carving out as much reading time as I'd like. The book I'm slowly working my way through is Miriam Toews's The Flying Troutmans.

It's a road trip book.

I don't drive, I don't spend much time in cars, and so I find road trips particularly exciting.

I wish I could write like Miriam Toews. I say that every time I read one of her books, but I absolutely love the sardonic tone she uses to approach themes of depression and suicide. I find her books very funny. Depression, suicide... hilarious stuff.

You really have to read her books to understand what I mean.

And you could read any of her books to get it. I haven't read everything she's written, but I get the sense the same types of characters show up in all of them: family members of people who are suicidal or people who have committed suicide.

I remember one time listening to someone rant about how nobody should ever write books about relatives of people with disabilities or mental illness--that writers should only centre the character with the disability.

True, those stories can go wrong in a lot of ways.

But, from my perspective, Miriam Toews's books are a prime example of thoughtful, empathetic, and realistic portrayals of the inner lives of family members. I realize that my depression impacts the people around me, so I'm interested in reading these stories of caring and sometimes exasperated relatives.

I'm very close to the end of The Flying Troutmans, so I don't know what's going to happen. I'm curious to find out whether it's possible to run away from the sad--for these characters, that is. In fiction.

In real life, I know that's not possible.

The Mind That Cried Storm, a post by @GiselleRenarde

Thunder and lightning woke me at five, this morning. Fireballs in the sky, crashes of sound and energy that reverberated through my bed. Storms are phenomenal, when they're happening outside your own mind.

Inside? That's another story.

I had a few bad months, mentally and emotionally. Well, more than a few bad months. But I had a few REALLY bad months. Depression and anxiety teamed up to poison my mind with all kinds of inaccurate thoughts. I kept imagining scenarios where everything went wrong, and reacting to them as though they were real. They weren't real. My mind created them out of nothing. My thoughts were not reality-based, and yet I responded to them as though they were.

One day I cried for 8 hours straight. I kind of reached my breaking point.

A friend of mine, who happens to be a doctor, recommended a workbook called Mind Over Mood to help me implement cognitive behavioural therapy techniques. It was exactly what I needed, because it teaches you to look at those thoughts, to examine them for accuracy, to determine whether real-life evidence supports them.

In most cases, for me, the anxiety thoughts had almost zero basis in reality.

While I was doing my worksheets, I didn't feel like they were helping me. I still felt anxious, I still felt insecure and unsettled. But the act of observing obviously changed me, over time, because these past few weeks should have been killer, and I've gotten through them with considerably more ease than anticipated.

I have my mother to thank, in large part. She doesn't know the meaning of the word "anxiety." Her philosophy is that she'll deal with stuff as it happens. No sense worrying about things that may never come to pass.

My mother's had a series of medical appointments throughout the spring and summer, culminating in a biopsy for which my siblings and I nervously awaited results. My mom wasn't nervous, though. "What's the point in being nervous? I'll just waste all this time when I could be doing other things. When I find out what's going on, then the doctors will tell us what to do."

We got the results last week. My mom has cancer. It always takes a while for these things to sink in, for me. I don't know whether I'm still in that numb stage, or whether Mind Over Mood truly did prepare me for this. Or maybe my mother prepared me by setting an example of not worrying. It isn't put on, with her. She is a truly happy-go-lucky person. She trusts her doctor. She trusts that the chemo and other therapies will do their job, and she'll be just fine by this time next year.

I hope she's right, but, more than that, I trust that she's right. Part of this is intuition. I woke up the morning of her appointment thinking, "It'll be cancer, but it'll be fine." It's just hard to trust intuition when its cousin, anxiety, has so often led me astray.

If you want more from me, consider following my music and anecdote site, A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day. I really do post there every day, and it pleases me so much to get visitors.

The Magician and Me #Tarot #Writing by @GiselleRenarde

Universal Waite deck © U.S. Games Systems, Inc.

I'm coming home to things I loved as a teenager. Tarot is one of those things.

When I can't sleep, I listen to tarot podcasts. One night, I listened to a podcast about calculating your birth card. I knew about significators--cards you use to signify yourself or other people--but I'd always used the card associated with my astrological sign as mine.

My birth card (Major Arcana card you get to by adding down your birth date, month and year until you have a number that's less than ten) turned out to be... The Magician.

I wasn't feeling particularly magical when I made this discovery. This past year has been full of grief, depression, anxiety, and plenty of other deep feelings. I've been in midlife crisis mode, big-time. I've made sweeping changes and questionable choices.

Where work is concerned, I wondered: "What is the point?" My books are still selling, but only the old ones. When I write something new, I can't seem to convince more than 3 people to buy a copy.  It's disheartening, it really is.

Life felt like something that was happening to me, not something I was actively engaged in. When I was numb, I didn't care whether I lived or died. When my feelings came back, I had too many all at once. Too many emotions, too strong. What's preferable? Feeling too much or feeling dead inside?

When I realized The Magician was my birth card, it opened up something inside me. Couldn't have come at a better time, because I was really starting to feel like I had no control over my life. Huge choices and life events all seemed to be in other people's hands, and I felt like I was just waiting for others to make a move so my life could finally begin.

The Magician doesn't wait around. The Magician makes things happen. He is me. I can manifest my will here on earth! I can do it!

One of the tarot podcasters I listen to and love is constantly saying that nothing's fixed in stone--if you don't like the direction your life is going, you can change it. For some reason, that had never occurred to me. I felt like I just had to wait around until something happened, and hope it was something good.

The Magician card convinced me that I have a part to play in my own life. I don't have to feel like everyone else is running the show (though, realistically, I still do, most of the time). I have the option of making choices and acting on those choices. I can choose which direction I want my life to go.

Even that much is progress. A few months ago, I felt like I had no life left in me.

Music Lovers are Going to Love my New Project!

A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day with Giselle Renarde

In case I haven't mentioned it lately, I'm a pretty isolated person. I'm working on being less isolated, but it's not easy--especially when you live alone and work from home. I've never been great at making friends, and it's only getting harder as the years go by.

Lots of social agencies organize friendly visits for isolated seniors, but I'm hearing that younger people are living increasingly isolated lives. There isn't really anything out there for us--at least, not that I'm aware of.  

That's why I wanted to start... something.  I didn't know what, at first.

I wanted to start a new project that involved reaching out to other humans. I wanted to do something for my own benefit as well as the benefit of others. And I knew it had to be a daily something. When I'm experiencing a bad depressive episode, I need something to look forward to every single day. 

But I also knew I shouldn't overcommit. Creating original content every day of the year for goodness knows how long could cause big-time burnout, and who would that help? 

A couple weeks ago, I was tweeting about the song that was stuck in my head when I realized how often I find myself doing just that. I love music and I have lots of associations with the songs I like, and I could pretty much talk about them endlessly.

That's when it hit me: A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day. It combines the concept of a friendly visitor with MUSIC, and it's accessible to anyone with an internet connection. 

I just launched my new site this week, and part of me worried I'd get like 3 hits and be super-bummed  (that's what usually happens when I try something new), but the response has been great and I'm only 4 days in. 

If you love music or you're socially isolated (or both) or you just like reading what I have to say about anything that pops into my head, you are definitely going to enjoy A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day.

Check out the site.  At the top of the page, you'll see a little SUBSCRIBE button. Hit that and Google will email you every day after my new post goes up. The one annoying thing is that I embed YouTube videos in all my posts and those don't seem to get emailed, so you'll still have to click through to the website in order to actually listen to the song of the day, but at least if you're subscribed you'll get that reminder every day to check it out.

I'm really excited about this new project. It has lifted my mood tremendously. If you know anyone who's feeling low these days, or who needs a little internet visit on the daily, please tell them about A Friendly Musical Visit Every Day.

I hope you'll join me as I share music and memories!
Giselle

https://friendlymusicvisitor.blogspot.com

Dirty Laundry, Filthy Books, #Taboo #Erotica by @GiselleRenarde

I've been spending a lot of time in my building's laundry room lately. It's recently renovated, bright and shiny, bustling with activity and, best of all, humming day and night.

Depression and anxiety have been keeping me locked up a lot, lately. That's why I'm making a concerted effort to get out of my apartment, even if I'm not quite leaving my building. I've been using the gym, the pool, and the lovely laundry room. I find the hum of those washers and dryers incredibly soothing. Highly recommended! Be the creep who hangs out in laundromats!

Anyway, people leave books in my laundry room, for other tenants to read. I was pleasantly surprised when I came across this little beauty:

(like my pink pyjamas?)

I haven't started reading it yet, but a friend was over the other day. When he spotted it on my table, I told him the one most salient point I'm aware of with regard to Anais Nin: that she had an affair with her father. A few years ago, there was a play staged about their relationship. Or was it an opera? I didn't see it, but the fact stood out in my mind.

It led me to write my story "Two Complete Strangers," which is incest erotica about a father and daughter meeting as adults... and fucking like bunnies. ("Fucking like bunnies" sounds so much cuter than "fucking like father and daughter," doesn't it?)

I always really liked that story, and you can read it in a collection called Forbidden Family Erotica:

Remember Smut Smackdown? Lexi Wood challenged me to write the dirtiest incest sex story possible. Or I challenged her. I don't really remember. Anyway, we wrote three stories each and asked readers to vote on whose stories were filthier.

I don't remember who won. Probably Lexi. Taboo smut is her bread and butter. That said, my stories were pretty damn good. The one that stands out, in my mind, is "Two Complete Strangers." There's a bicycle trip in there too. And some public sex. Because if you're going to have sex en plein air, it might as well be with a blood relative.

Anyhoozle, all six Smut Smackdown stories are now available in one collection.

Because of a recent crackdown, you won't find this book for sale at many retailers.  You may or may not be aware that Barnes and Noble, a bookseller that used to sell every kind of erotica you can imagine, has cleaned up shop. They used to sell incest smut. Now they don't. So you won't find this there. Or at Amazon. Or pretty much anywhere else you might shop.

You can buy Forbidden Family Erotica from Smashwords and eXcessica Eden. And I hope you will!

Forbidden Family Erotica
Six Shocking Sex Stories
Taboo Erotica by Giselle Renarde and Lexi Wood

Daddies and daughters, brothers and sisters, twins, cousins and more! Nobody’s off-limits in this taboo collection of illicit incest erotica. Six sexy stories certain to satisfy!

In this collection you’ll find the following family erotica: Talk Dirty to me, Daddy!, Spying on the Twins, Daddy’s Wet Little Virgin, Two Complete Strangers, The Family Bed, and Taken by Vicky’s Daddy… and Mine!

Buy Now from Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/750860?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica

Or Buy from the Publisher, eXcessica Eden: http://www.excessica.com/eden/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=30&products_id=333&zenid=d9c78c23088f2f2e029055042e1a5940

The Cure for Social Isolation, a post by @GiselleRenarde

I've had a rough couple weeks. Pretty common, for a depressed person. The difference this time was that I was started to feel socially isolated. I can't remember another time when I would have plastered that label all over myself, but it got so bad I started reaching out to actual humans. And I never do that.

I got in touch with my oldest friend. We have a close bond. I know stuff about her that she doesn't tell most people. I knew her when she was going through some tough PTSD shit. She knew me when I was young and foolish.

Now we live in different cities and we rarely see one another. We rarely even talk, but somehow that doesn't matter. The bond between us is so strong we don't need to be in constant contact to feel connected.

But sometimes I need support, and sometimes she does, and that's usually when we reach out to each other.

It was me reaching out, this time. We made plans to see each other. Unfortunately, the father of a friend of hers died, and she had to drive clear across the province for the funeral. We formulated new plans for when she'd be passing through Toronto on her way home, but the thing about my friend is that she has a very serious health condition and her depressed immune system meant she became quite ill and stuck in the small town where her friend lives.

So none of our plans panned out. I don't blame her, obviously. But that doesn't stop me from being sad that we didn't get to see each other.

Depression and social isolation mingle in this weird way where the isolation is crying out, "I want to see someone," and the depression is whispering, "No you don't.  You just stay right here by me."  It's so seductive, the way it holds you close and runs its fingers through your hair. Depression has such a good grip on a person like me. It knows how to keep me from seeking out solace in the social sphere.

Through all this, my girlfriend's been working her ass off getting ready for a charity event she helps to run. She called me one night when she'd planned on coming over and said she was just too tired.  She'd been doing hard physical labour for 12 hours. I understood.  But I was so sad about not being able to connect with anyone, not even my own girlfriend, that when she called I was just silent on the phone.  I couldn't speak. I was too sad, but I couldn't explain why. I literally couldn't produce words.

It led to a very unfortunate misunderstanding, which I couldn't clear up because... Depression. Sweet was upset with me.  She didn't know everything that had happened with my friend getting sick and all that.  She just thought I was being a selfish brat.

When I woke up Saturday morning (okay, afternoon), life wasn't looking good.  The only thing I had to look forward was picking up a hold at the library.  And, to be honest, sometimes I get really jazzed about that.  But not when Depression's got me in her grip.

Thank goodness for radio. It's gotten me through some really rough times. And not just the music, but the hosts too.

I was listening to an indie rock station, and the host was talking about how she'd been feeling really irritated because she knew the streetcar she took to work would be diverted. The route change had to do with King Street being turned into a pedestrian walkway during the Toronto International Film Festival.

The radio host said that, after feeling disgruntled about the change in her commute, she decided to simply leave the house early, get off the streetcar where the road closure started, and walk through the pedestrian section of the street. And doing so took her from being irritated that her route was interrupted to feeling elated by the buoyant energy of all these people trying to get a glimpse of movie stars.

So I thought... you know what?  I'm going to King Street.

I'll tell you something about me: I don't even like movies. I have the attention span of a fruit fly. I cannot sit through a movie.  Just ask my girlfriend. She's a movie buff.  But she has a movie friend who goes to the movies with her, because I just can't.

I didn't go to the film festival for the movies.  I went for the people.

And you know what?

It worked.

As soon as I got to King Street, where it was blocked off for pedestrian use, the energy all around was just electric. There were people of all ages snapping photos, laughing and talking, lining up to try samples of products.  Restaurants had spilled out onto the street. Roads became patios.

But it was the people that helped me shake this bout of depression. Their excitement was frenetic.  There were big screens set up, I guess to broadcast celebrities getting out of limos?  I don't know. I'm really not up on pop culture.  But just that sound of teens squealing, the general frenzy, the joy and anticipation--it lifted me out of the pit I'd been living in for weeks.

My girlfriend's volunteer event was only a few blocks away, so I walked up to meet her.  She'd been on her feet for ten hours by that point, but she wasn't too busy talk.  I was finally able to tell her everything that had been going on, and she said that if she'd realized all that she'd have cut me some slack instead of arguing.  We spent the rest of the evening together and it was great.  And a big part of the greatness was being out in the city, in these big crowds of people.

So the cure for social isolation is... people?  That seems a little too simplistic.

I've been thinking about those who are depressed and living in smaller communities. If they go out to a community gathering, they're probably going to see people they know.  The key, for me, was in being able to go out and be around people I didn't know. For me, that first step toward integrating myself more fully into the world is being anonymous in the world. Being around people, but being a nobody.  Enjoying the energy and excitement of an event without really being part of it.  I don't drive. If I lived in a tiny community, I'm not sure what I'd do.

But for those of us who live in active, vibrant cities, the cure for social isolation might simply be to find a crowd that's excited about something fun.  Steal that collective energy before it dissipates.  If you're anything like me, you need it.

It's funny--I was on the subway the other day and a man got on with his leg in a cast.  He was having trouble negotiating the crowd and I asked him if he needed a hand.  He thanked me, but said he was doing okay. He told me: "My motto is I'd rather have pain like this, that's visible on the outside, than pain on the inside that no one else can see."

I swear that man was reading my soul.

By the way, if you need something to look forward to every day, you can visit my Donuts and Desires blog every day in September for Erotica Every Day, which is exactly what it sounds like. I'm posting a different flash fiction story each day at this link: http://donutsdesires.blogspot.com/2018/08/erotica-every-day-trust-me.html

Why don't you visit more often? heh

When thoughts feel like quicksand

By Annabeth Leong

Sometimes I talk about my thoughts like they’re a field full of quicksand from an old movie. I step into certain thoughts and suddenly I’m sinking fast. While I’m capable of things like doing the dishes even while I’m rapidly drowning in my own brain, it’s very hard to do anything that requires clear thinking, such as writing.

I’ve been using the quicksand metaphor for a long time, but it just now occurred to me to look at the solution to quicksand to see if there’s anything that applies. What I found was actually quite calming.

With credit to WikiHow, there are a bunch of ways that I think the advice for quicksand can apply to dealing with the kinds of thoughts that mess up my life and stop my writing dead.

1. Drop everything

As in, don’t struggle with quicksand while carrying a giant backpack. My association here is trying to sort out complex psychological problems without making the space to do so. Sometimes I do have to cancel that hard thing I was going to do this evening. Conversely, sometimes I have to leave certain things undealt with so I can go do whatever it is that I need to do.

2. Move horizontally

This refers to taking a couple steps backward, maybe, instead of just struggling forward. Basically trying to see if there are other directions to go. And indeed, if I’m really stuck on one problem, sometimes it’s possible to find other places I can make progress.

3. Lay back

This is to get the pressure off your feet so you’re not just bearing down in one place and sinking deeper. To me, it also gives an image of relaxation and not fighting directly. Sometimes for me those quicksand thoughts are particular pain points, things that make me just grind away without getting anywhere in particular. I think the psychological metaphor here is to let go of trying to sort that particular thing out. Lay back inside my brain. Let it do its swirling without pressing down and going under.

4. Take your time

“Whatever you do, do it slowly,” says the article. And this is absolutely great advice for those psychological issues. I have found that if I am able to give myself enough time and space, I can get through my work even if my brain is attacking me. It’s not the time to add deadline pressure, though. Or to expect myself to operate at maximum efficiency.

5. Take frequent breaks

It’s tiring to extricate yourself from quicksand, and you don’t want to lose strength entirely. I’ve made no secret of how I’ve struggled for about the last year. Things are gradually getting better for me—gradually. But I’m working better now than I have in a long time, and one thing I do is set a timer so I stand up and take a break twice an hour. It keeps me from getting too stressed and miserable, and it saves me from sliding into the many types of quicksand offered by the Internet.

***

The article I found about quicksand doesn’t address the possibility of being helped by a friend, but I think that’s a thing, too. Sometimes what you really want is for someone to throw you a rope to hang onto, and sometimes what you really need is for someone to help pull you out.

MSTie-eyed and fancy-free

by Giselle Renarde

My girlfriend has changed my life for the better in oh-so-many ways. For instance, she introduced me to a show I like to call Mystery Science Theater 3000. I call it that because that's its name. We were at HMV before it closed its doors forever when she held up a DVD box set and asked "Have you ever seen this?"

She had, but not on TV. I have no idea whether Mystery Science Theater 3000 aired in Canada. I never got any 'a them fancy networks. Sweet said she used to rent it on VHS from the video store.

In case you've gone your whole life without ever hearing about MST3K (like me until a couple years ago), here's what all the hubbub's about:



A human test subject—first Joel Robinson (Joel Hodgson), then Mike Nelson (Michael J. Nelson), and most recently Jonah Heston (Jonah Ray)—has been imprisoned aboard the spacecraft Satellite of Love by mad scientists and their henchmen (collectively called "the Mads") and is forced to watch a series of bad movies in order to find one that will drive the test subject insane.

To keep his sanity, Joel built himself a series of sentient robots (the "'bots") from parts aboard the Satellite, and who subsequently remain aboard with the other test subjects. The 'bots include Tom Servo, Crow T. Robot, Gypsy and Cambot. Crow and Servo join the human as they watch the film in the Satellite's theater. The trio frequently comment and wisecrack atop it, a process known as "riffing". At regular intervals throughout the movie, the hosts leave the theater and return to the bridge of the Satellite to perform sketches ("host segments") that satirize the film being watched.

Mystery Science Theater 3000 couldn't have come into my life at a more perfect time. I was hit by a bad bout of depression (which tends to happen when you're chronically depressed), and one thing I've learned about myself is that comedy helps.

Big-time helps.

Helps more than anything else I can think of.

At least, it helps for me personally. My girlfriend tells me that, when she's down, comedy is the last thing she wants. She feels like it's mocking her, or making light of everything that's bad in the world.

But comedy is my go-to, so I'm immensely grateful that my girlfriend introduced it to me at just the right time.

MST3K is silly and smart. I thought that's why I loved it. (I don't think any one human could get all the jokes. One minute they're making references to Michel Foucault, the next they're referring to some regional Minnesota cable commercial. It helps if you watch with pop-up video style annotations on their YouTube channel.) But, upon reflection, I realize the reason I watched 3-4 hours of MST3k every day when I was really depressed is the sense of community it fosters. I guess anything with a cult following makes you feel sort of special (yay! I'm part of a cult), but more than that...

Oh god I'm going to sound like such a loser...

Am I really going to say this out loud?

Yes, I am.

When I watched all those hours of MST3K, I felt like I had friends.

Robot friends.

And Joel.

Do I sound like a lonely, miserable person or what? But that's what depression does to me. Makes me not want to reach out. Not to real people. But to robots? Yes, that's acceptable. If I could pal around with Servo and Crow (and also Data because every comedy team needs a straight man or an android), I would be in heaven.

The riffing also reminds me of watching "Mom Shows" with my siblings (and my mom, of course, otherwise we'd be watching something else).

Mom Shows are terrible dramas, usually CanCon about FBI agents or any show where a couple of the characters are angels. Not Charlie's Angels--the heavenly variety. Whenever my mom watched her Mom Shows, my siblings and I would rip those fuckers to shreds.

Those were the days! Sitting around the TV riffing on Mom Shows with my sibs. You know, my mom didn't even tell us to stop making fun. She'd join in! Her jokes were... not the greatest... but it's the effort that counts. I think she just loved that all her kids were in one room, all focused on the same activity: riffing on Touched by an Angel.

Reading over everything I've just written, I can sort of imagine people wondering why I don't just go out and buy some real friends, or at least spend more time with my family. All possibilities. And maybe one day I will. But at two in the morning, when I'm alone with my cats, there will always be Mystery Science Theater 3000.

The Well It Draineth Every Day

by Giselle Renarde

When I was in my final year of high school, one of my assignments for English class was to read a novel from the Canadian literary canon and give a one-on-one oral report about it.  I'm not sure why, but instead of presenting that report to my teacher, we students presented to the school librarian. I'd never met the woman before. To say we had little rapport would be a drastic understatement.

I was an overachiever and I got excellent grades. Most teachers liked me.  This woman clearly did not.  That, or she just wore that sour expression constantly and treated everyone like dirt. I don't know.  I don't know her life.

The book I read was The Diviners by Margaret Laurence. Do I remember anything about it? Nope! Not a thing. But I do remember my oral report.  I talked about drawing from the well of creativity. What do Diviners seek but water? They figure out where exactly to tap the earth so we'll hit pay dirt rather than come up dry.

Speaking of dry, that was the look the librarian gave me throughout my entire report. Her face basically said: "You have GOT to be kidding me with this New Age crap!" And the grade she gave me certainly reflected her lack of enthusiasm for my thoughts on Margaret Laurence's novel.

And, hey, maybe I did get it completely wrong. Hard to say. I tend to believe that most opinions about literary fiction are valid, and that our interpretations of literature actually say far more about us as readers than about the book itself.

I've been thinking about the artistic well a lot lately.  I've always believed that, if you're doing creative work, if you're constantly drawing from The Well, you've got to keep filling it non-stop.  That's why I start every morning by reading.

But books aren't the only way to fill The Well. They shouldn't be, if you ask me.  The Well can be filled with personal experiences, TV shows, music, movies, conversations with Grandma, Netflix, eavesdropping on people while riding the subway... the list goes on. I don't place literature in an elite category.  It's in there with all the other stuff.

These days... I'll be honest with you... there isn't enough media on the planet (or even on the internet) to fill that well.  I'm running on empty. All the time.  I haven't written a book since July.  And I'm a full-time author! That's BAD. That's really bad.  I'm only happy when I'm filling my face with media.  Washing dishes and listening to podcasts is pretty much my idea of heaven.

I've been feeling really isolated lately. Depression stuff.  You know how it is. But podcasts have helped me so much.  Having other people's voices in my ears is so intimate, and I feel like I have friends, but they're friends who put no pressure on me.  I don't have to do anything.  I can listen at my leisure.

If I feel this way, other people must as well.  I really wanted to reach out to all the isolated people like me, but in a way where I'm not intruding too much.  That's a big part of the reason I decided to launch my Audio Erotica Patreon.  I've written hundreds of stories over the past 10+ years, and I really love narration. I'm a trained actor and a bit of a ham, plus narration lets me get out of my own head and inhabit my character's skin for a while.

One of the big reasons I held off launching my Patreon for so long (nearly a year) was that I figured nobody would want to be my patron and then I'd just feel MORE depressed and rejected. But then I thought, "Hey, you! Stop all that negative self-talk! You're offering a quality product. There's no reason to believe your supporters won't jump at the chance to be your patron!"

Well, Depression was right. I launched my Patreon on October 1st and I still don't have a single patron. At launch, I even made my weekly audio erotica broadcasts available for only $1/month.  When nobody supported me I thought, "Hey, maybe I'm undervaluing my work" (my girlfriend always tells me that's one of my bad habits--undervaluing my work and myself), so I cranked it up to $1/week.

The reason I became less keen on writing new fiction was that, honestly, my books are not selling well enough to make it feel worthwhile. The last ebook I put out... I don't think it's sold a single copy.  I was really excited about creating audio erotica. I still want to be excited about recording it. But I really need for there to be someone on the other end.

Want to know something funny? My girlfriend is always really supportive and encouraging of my ideas, but when I told her about my Patreon plan she said, "Sure, test it out. And then if it doesn't work you'll know the demand isn't there, but it's always better to try."  She knew I was going to fall flat. I guess I did too.

But I also chastise other authors for giving up too easily, so maybe I should practice what I preach and be more patient.

As for The Well... will it ever be filled? I consume media for days on end and I never feel inspired to create. Is there a dowsing rod for creativity?  Is it money?  I've heard studies concluding that earning money from your art stifles creativity rather than encouraging it.  I don't know.  I think a little money could sure light a fire under my creative ass.

Sadsack Blowback #Writing #AgeGap #Erotica

by Giselle Renarde

I don't tend to keep on top of things.

That's especially true when it comes to the daily drama of the romance world.

But I happened to notice everybody freaking out about a chart-topper on Amazon. Apparently this book featured father/daughter incest and underage sex. It's since been removed from sale because both of those things go against Amazon's terms of service. This book's also been banned by Smashwords, and Smashwords will sell you books about getting fucked by your mom, a bull, and the family dog. It takes some effort to get your book bounced from their system.

Bottom line is you can't publish erotic books featuring sex with minors. Ever. Anywhere. This is what we've all agreed to as authors.

So that whole thing happened.

But it didn't stop there.

Because after that incident, I started seeing authors hating on other books... books wherein the main characters were not related or underage.  Books about legal adults engaged in consensual sex.

Hoo boy.  Here we go.

Remember 10+ years ago, when authors supported each other?  Helped each other?  I do.  I was blown away by the kindness and generosity other writers showed me when I was starting out in this business.

Now what do we get?  Authors tearing each other down.  Authors scratching each other's eyes out.  Petty jealousies that turn into witch hunts.  That's what I've been seeing lately.

After the rapey child molester book was taken off the market, I saw authors calling for other books to be taken down too--pretty much any book featuring an older man and younger woman. Consenting adults with an age gap.  Everything must go.

Look, I'm kind of glad nobody in that romance world really knows or cares I exist (or they've hated me for so long that it's not even fun anymore), because I've written a ridiculous amount of age gap fiction and I'm not going to stop because a bunch of angry authors think it's "disgusting." 

Why do I so often write about older men and younger women?  Because I lived it.  You know this about me. You know I was involved with one of my high school teachers, a much older man, a very married man.  I've told this story so many times you're bored just thinking about it. So am I.

Through fiction writing, I'm able to process my experiences as a teen and young adult.  I'm able to think about that time in my life from every angle.  I'm sure that, in reading my fiction, readers who've shared similar experiences are able to process their shit too. I recently heard someone say there's no "junk food" when it comes to media consumption. Even if you think of some stupid TV show you watch as a guilty pleasure, it changes you.  Everything we consume (books, movies, TV, music) works inside our brains in ways we're not even aware of.

Okay, so one thing that attracted me to the older man I was involved with was that... this might sound a little strange... but he was just so sad.  Like, really really sad. Existential ennui, despair, suicidal thoughts. I was so drawn to that.  I just wanted to make him happy.  I wanted to use my body to make him happy.

I was drawn to other qualities, too.  He seemed so knowledgeable and wise. Nobody in my family had gone past high school, and he had a MASTER'S degree. Like, wow, so educated! *swoon* Smart and sad. Shut up and take my virginity!

Did I think our relationship was fucked up while it was happening? Of course not!  I'd have gone to the ends of the earth to defend the choices we made.  Looking back, do I think it was fucked up?  Hell yes. But does that mean I regret my life choices? No, not at all. And does that mean I shouldn't fictionalize my personal experiences? No. It's my life. I'm gonna use it in my books.

"Fine, write your life--but depressing litfic only. It shouldn't be presented in a positive light."

Haha. That was the hottest sex of my life. You think I'm not going to present it that way? My libido's waning by the minute and I very often wish there was some way to recapture those delicious years.  I can't recapture them in life.  I can in fiction.

Pretty much everything I write is massively fucked up.  I'd be bored if it wasn't.  If a bunch of other authors hate me because I write taboo erotica or student/teacher sex or adultery or age play, let them hate. I stopped caring a long time ago.

Except I guess I do still get riled up, or why would I be writing these words?

And why would I have decided to post my new adult novella CHERRY for free at Wattpad?

CHERRY is one super-smutty book.

It's about an 18-year-old girl who falls for her father's best friend on vacation. It's pretty much exactly the kind of book a lot of authors seem to want to burn these days. What I keep thinking is: if a book doesn't appeal to you, DON'T READ IT.  It's obviously not for you. It's probably for the person who's been through this--who's going through it now or who went through it when they were younger.  Or maybe it's just for the reader who wants to peep some hot sex between an older man and a young woman. Why so much judgement? Sheesh.

Anyway, today I posted the first chapter from CHERRY at Wattpad so people can read it for free. I'm going to post a new chapter every day until I'm out of chapters. More info here.

People who find this kind of book offensive can skip it. Or hate-read it. I really don't care.  I'm making CHERRY available FOR FREE for the people who want to read it--to process their experiences... or just to get off.

https://www.wattpad.com/456958988-cherry-chapter-one

God’s Gift

By Annabeth Leong

(CN: Harassment, self-harm)

“You can’t just walk around like you’re God’s gift, cuz you ain’t.”

The voice is strong and cruel enough to cut through the fog of my self-loathing and tear-soaked worry. I glance up and realize this thing has been said to me, by a guy standing on the porch of his building, just to my left off the sidewalk.

I’m too broken today, too lost and fragile, to do anything but nod mutely and keep walking, a little faster now.

I think back, replaying the last few moments and focusing on my surroundings instead of the thoughts inside my head. “Hey, beautiful,” he’d said, and I guess that must also have been directed at me, though I didn’t notice at the time.

I can piece the narrative together now. He “complimented” me, and I “ignored” him, so then he lashed out and insulted me.

Today, the insult strikes me deep. You ain’t God’s gift. You ain’t. You can’t just walk around.

I know. The cruel voice confirms what my heart was already telling me. Tears slip down my cheeks. This isn’t supposed to be a big deal. I’m supposed to walk this sort of harassment off. Maybe not even see it as harassment.

Today, I can’t. I can’t just walk around.

***

I’ve been thinking about cutting myself for about three months, toying with the thought the way I sometimes press at a scab or a bruise. It hurts, but I also can’t seem to quit that imagery.

It’s been more than a decade since I actually cut myself. I trust myself not to turn thought into action. I go to therapy. I’m so much more aware of how my brain works and what I can do about it.

Still, the thoughts have been ever-present lately. They’re wearing me down. I barely have energy to do anything. It feels like a miracle that I get dressed, that I eat. I know that not everyone can when their brain is working this way. I tell myself I’m lucky I’m so functional, that I can still work a little even though I miss all my deadlines.

I’m fighting with someone dear to me. I don’t want to share the details here, but the fight has turned nasty and impossible and deep. Nothing I do is right, no matter how hard I try to come up with something helpful. I can’t do what this person wants of me. They are telling me how hurt they are, and I feel like a villain. A villain who ought to go away. Who ain’t God’s gift to anything or anyone. Who ought to die, or at least be physically maimed. It can hurt so much when it feels like your insides don’t match your outsides. I want to hurt this body so my pain can show. You can’t just walk around.

Today, I feel so delicate, like a page that’s so old it’ll crumble if you breathe on it. I need to do something good, something safe. I ask my partner if I can meet them at the train station. I put on clothes and let myself out the door and start to walk there, partly because I’ve cried so much lately that I don’t feel I can see well enough to be a safe driver.

I try to keep it together, to look around at the world. I know it’s important for me to remember that things exist outside my brain. The sun still shines. The grass still gets overgrown. Whenever my attention slips, though, I’m back to the old, evil treadmill: Why can’t I fix things with this person? Why can’t I just do what they want? Why can’t I just be good enough? I want to hurt, I want to hurt, I want to hurt. I see the razor blade in my mind. I remember how I used it, those handful of times I crossed the line. What was going on when I did that? Was I finding courage or losing courage?

“You can’t just walk around like you’re God’s gift, cuz you ain’t.”

I know. I know. I’m so sorry. I know.

***

I’ve written essays about harassment before. I’ve written about the ways it makes me feel unsafe and exhausted. I’ve tried to explain how it isn’t a compliment even when it uses words that overlap with compliments.

But this is the worst I’ve been hurt by harassment that I can recall. This is worse than the time a guy groped and harassed me at my favorite movie theater, leaving me nervous about returning there to this day, despite knowing that’s illogical. This is worse than the time a guy interrupted me while I was trying to comfort my crying girlfriend, so he could hit on us. This is worse than the time a guy followed me with his car while I tried to run away, and I had to plunge through overgrown bushes to escape him, and then when I called the police later they asked me what I was doing walking on that road at that time of day.

The reason it hurt so badly, I think, was entitlement. Right then, I didn’t feel entitled to live, to breathe, to be in the world without being hurt. I needed a little entitlement. I needed it to be okay that I couldn’t satisfy the person I was fighting with, to see that I still deserved to exist and be loved even if I wasn’t what someone else wanted me to be.

If I had been walking around like I was God’s gift, that would have been a huge victory for me.

That insult, though… What that guy said to me was an effort to take down someone he saw as entitled. “You can’t just walk around like you’re God’s gift, cuz you ain’t.” What was I doing that seemed so entitled to him? Walking down the sidewalk? Breathing? Having breasts? Not responding to his demand for my attention?

I felt guilty, even, when I realized the insult (and the “compliment”) were for me. Had I hurt his feelings by being so lost in my depression?

I’ve learned enough now to know better than that, at least. That guy felt entitled to my attention. That was the entitlement. He said, “Hey, beautiful,” and thought I owed him something for that. I was supposed to look at him, at least, or say thank you, or somehow respond.

How dare I think I can walk past him without paying that tax of attention? Who said I had any right to get so caught up in my own thoughts that I wound up walking down the street without being available to every person around me? Who gave me the right to have my own mind, my own private problems, my misery when someone else wants me to be sexual and fun.

And I can’t help thinking these things go together a bit. I want to believe it’s okay for me to breathe, to walk, to be, to not always do what someone else wants. But I go outside, desperate and hurting, running to my partner for comfort, and get told, “You can’t just walk around like you’re God’s gift. Cuz you ain’t.”

I know.

***

(About a week after this happened to me, I found out about the new National Street Harassment Hotline. From the website:

A growing body of research shows that street harassment negatively impacts women emotionally. It can be traumatic for them, especially for survivors of sexual abuse. “Mild” street harassment can escalate into physical harassment without warning and many women and some men have an underlying fear that verbal harassment will become physical.

I would add that people of all genders can feel this way, and trans and nonbinary people can also be particularly vulnerable.

Anyway, if I’d known about this then, I probably would have called the number that day. I thought I’d leave this link here in case anyone else needs it.)

The Cold and Lonely Winter

by Giselle Renarde

It's been a sedentary winter. The cold! The cold!  Who would go out in those frigid temperatures if they didn't have to? And I didn't have to, so I didn't. I sat on this couch or in that chair and I wrote stories. Or I slept. Slept a lot. Slept until noon, until one, until two...

Have I mentioned I'm a writer?

Is it really Vitamin D deficiency that triggers the dreaded SAD?  I've been taking my D-drops and I've still been D-pressed.  I have a theory, although it could be unique to me. Or not.  It's all the walking I don't do when it's cold out.

I actually love the winter, but this year was hellishly frigid, if that's a thing. I love snow. I don't mind trekking through it at all--I even went snowshoeing with my sister in January, and that was the happiest day of my winter.  It was sunny and the trees (the ones that survived December's ice storm) blocked the wind, so the air actually felt warm enough that I took off my hat and mitts. 

My sister tells me that, in Japan, doctors recommend "forest time" when people are stressed. I could really get behind that. Walking is one of my favourite activities.  I live in the middle of a city, so I walk in the middle of the city, but Toronto's full of forest.  Wherever you are, you can find one.  We've got plenty of trees.

I once knew a guy who started walking and didn't stop until he got to Vancouver.  Some days I think I could do that, except I'd miss the cats.  I'd miss some people, too, but none of those people rely on me to feed them or sanitize their bathrooms.  Actually, I could blame the cats most days for my inability to get out of bed. When I wake up, they're still sleeping. On me. My cats sleep on me.  And if you've got a cat sleeping on you, how can you get up? It's physically impossible.

My cats are depressed, too, according to my vet. He kind of blames me, which is exactly what I need to hear. Thanks.

There's a gym in my building. I've lived here ten years. Want to guess how many times I've used it? (Did you guess zero? Because the answer is zero.)

I can walk for hours, easily, but not on a treadmill.  Outside, in the fresh air--in the forest, ideally.  Once I start walking, I never want to stop.  I never want to come home.  I just want to walk and walk and walk forever.  It's hard to turn around.

(By the way, I've got big plans to write a book about depression. Maybe you can help me: http://likeits1999diary.blogspot.ca/2014/04/why-i-want-to-write-book-about.html )

Giselle is not at home right now...

by Giselle Renarde's Christmas Elf

Even sitting on her mother's couch on Christmas night, Giselle can visualize the bookshelf in her living room.  It hasn't changed in years.  It's stocked with a good deal of fiction, but far too many university-era reads.  Why?  Because she revisits them every so often?  Nah.  She didn't read most of those books in the first place.  How she earned herself a degree, she'll never know.

Giselle wasn't always a bad student.  In fact, throughout elementary school she was an overachiever.  High school?  Even better.  She left her final year with a 96.8% average... or a 98.6% average.  She can't quite remember.  Her days since then have represented a slow process of stupification.

Or maybe "slow" is the wrong word.  A student's first year at university can be a difficult transition.  Giselle went from big fish in a small, coddling high school to an absolute nobody at a prestigious research university. 

Major depression hit.  She cried every day.  She cried all the time.  She cried on the subway, in the library, in the bathroom.  Nobody ever asked what was wrong.  Nobody.  Not once.

She sought therapy through the school's mental health initiative.  She cried there, too.  It didn't really help.

And so four years went by.  Giselle attended classes during the day and worked at night to pay tuition, rent, food... books.  When she arrived home at her tiny bachelor apartment, usually after midnight, she read her texts and wrote her papers as her little tabby curled up beside her. 

She tried hard, but not hard enough to earn the A's she saw in high school.  In fact, a B was cause for celebration. Mostly, she struggled to be okay with those dreaded C's. She didn't have time to beat herself up too much.

Last week, Giselle found a quirky Canadian TV show on Netflix.  Her sisters had told her "Being Erica," about a girl in her thirties who undergoes an unusual form a time-travel therapy, would appeal to her.  And it did.  There was an episode where the main character, Erica, expresses concern that she's one of those people who peaked in high school. 

Giselle feels that pain.