Choosing To Battle

by Annabeth Leong

Hi! Thank you for giving me the time and space to have a rest from posting here. I’ve missed you all and am happy to be back. :)

The idea of choosing one’s battles immediately associates to restraint for me. When I tell myself to choose my battles, I usually mean, shut up for now. But to be honest, I wish I chose to fight more often. It’s very rare that I say something I regret. Far more common is having left things unsaid, having failed to defend myself.

So in honor of that, I’ll talk about a couple times I’m really glad I spoke up. These incidents are small, but I’m happy when I think about them. They make me sound wittier than I usually am, too, and I wish I could be like that more often.

***

I’m 16 or so, at a fancy shopping mall I would never normally go to. I’m waiting for someone, I think. Anyway, I look in a store window and see a gorgeous suede skirt that I really, really want. I walk inside to look more closely, and the salesperson can feel how strong the desire is. She asks if I want to try it on, and I agree.

I never shop, so I don’t know my size. “Medium?” I guess. I perceive myself as a medium-sized person, based on my experiences of walking around with other people. The medium, however, even unzipped, won’t go up past my knees. I trade it back to her for a large. That one won’t pass my thighs. I try an extra large, and it won’t pass my hips.

“Do you want to try something else?” the salesperson asks.

Something about the whole interaction is really irritating me at this point. It’s not about the label, it’s that they obviously can’t actually sell this thing to me--there’s probably not much of anything that they can sell to me. Why go through the charade? This store isn’t for me. It’s not for a lot of people.

“No thanks,” I say. “I don’t shoot enough heroin to shop here.” I walk out, head held high.

Writing the anecdote down as an adult, I don’t mean to be insensitive to those who are struggling with addiction. If I had it to say now, maybe I’d just say, “Maybe I’ll be back once you start actually making clothes for everyone.” But 16-year-old me was onto something. It’s a real problem that clothing retailers aren’t serving a large part of the population, that it often costs more to buy larger clothes, and that attractively designed clothes often aren’t available for larger people.

I only experience this problem a fraction of the time, and I know there are people who struggle with it a lot more. But I’m not sorry I said something. I’m glad I didn’t give that store any money or let them make me feel bad about my body. And I try now to pay attention to this, to buy clothes from places that offer a full range of sizes, because even if I can fit something, I don’t want to support stores that are leaving out lots of other people. I don’t do that perfectly, but it’s a battle I want to choose.

***

I’m 16, stocking shelves at the bookstore where I work. An older man starts asking me questions. Where’s the religion section? Where’s the biography section? Have I heard of this author? Have I heard of that author?

At some point, my spidey sense starts to tingle. This dude is creepy. He’s leading me deeper into the store, cornering me in the back. I leave and go back to stocking shelves. He finds another reason to ask me questions. He lingers in the aisle watching me.

Finally, he speaks up. “I find you very attractive,” he says.

And there are so many times in my life when I’ve frozen in the presence of men, especially predatory ones, but this time the feeling that surges through me is contempt. My head snaps up. With my nose ring and nerdy glasses and thrift store clothes I can’t believe this dude can’t guess that I’m in high school. “I find you very old,” I shoot back, and he flees.

How many times in my life have I wished for that same fire! But too often I’ve been poisoned by the feeling that I have to be nice and gentle, only to endure all types of creepy and aggressive behavior. I am the person who remembered to say please when asking the man trying to masturbate on me in the movie theater to go do that somewhere else. I wish I chose my battles more often in this venue, and that I spared people’s feelings less. I’d be better at defending myself if I did.

***

For a lot of my life, I’ve been known for my patience. But I don’t want to be known for that, because too often patience has made me take a raw deal. It made me stay in a miserable marriage, endure a bad situation at work for literally years, put up with all sorts of behavior that I shouldn’t have to put up with.

On a smaller scale, but one that still matters, I’m that person who winds up taking on lots of unpaid work, serving as de facto counselor in every group I join, driving people to the airport at 4 am because I can’t figure out how to say no.

It’s not that I want to be unkind. It’s just that when everyone around me is admiring my martyrdom and self-sacrificing nature, that’s a good time to look at why the hell I’m sacrificing myself so much.

So the point of all this is that, for me, I want choosing my battles to mean choosing to fight more, not less, to speak up rather than to restrain myself.

A Broader Scope

by Daddy X

Talk about choosing battles. I had intended to write about the rash of sexual allegations toward those in powerful positions. But once started, I realized the time and nuance it would require. More  than I could devote to a blog post begun too late.  

So I chickened out. That’s one battle I’ll choose not to engage in. For now.

Here’s something to take its place:

I started writing erotica in 2009, at 64 years of age. At the time, my libido still held sway over much of my thinking process, as it had since my teens. After a two years with little to no feedback on my work, the frustration became unbearable. I’m sure you all know how difficult it is to get an honest opinion from friends when it comes to erotica. Either they don’t want to hurt your feelings—or you lose a friend. ;>) So I took some classes with Susie Bright, as much to have other eyes on my work as anything else. Ms. Bright suggested joining The Erotica Readers and Writers Association as a possible solution. She told me how the lists operate, and that ERWA feedback had a good track record of turning dilettantes into writers. So I signed up.

Turned out that ERWA and I were a good match. As Susie had said, the educated feedback I received greatly sharpened my work. I was prolific. I apparently hit chords to which others responded. I managed to get 13 pieces chosen for the 2012 ERWA Treasure Chest, a collection of the best of the best monthly Gallery choices. At one point, I had at least one new story in those galleries for 26 months in a row. I was asked to be an acquisitions editor.

That productivity gradually dried up. My writer’s block has been pretty thorough. I haven’t completed a story in over a year, the last one (The Rasputin Collection) now available in the ERWA Unearthly Delights anthology.

Although this sounds like a sad story, it actually reveals more of a pattern. I have attained a somewhat above average success in most of my career choices, many of which have evolved from subjects that have interested me.

I was always a good cook. I read about cooking for enjoyment. We know it’s easy to learn something we love. Something that gives us pleasure for its own sake, not necessarily for profit, or even for survival. Activities we enjoy often lose their appeal when we are forced to do them for a living. Though I never reached the pinnacle of the restaurant business, I did earn over a dozen positive reviews in San Francisco newspapers and other publications. I felt this quite an accomplishment in a city known for its fine restaurants.

After working and setting up several kitchens, the job became more like drudgery, so I quit cooking and began tending bar. Because of a gregarious nature and a New Jersey background, the tougher bars were like a trip back home. I acquired the reputation: “Saloon Tamer”.

Of course, as I got older, I was no longer able (or willing) to roll around on the floor with those guys. Each time I had to resort to physicality, I wound up hurting myself in the process, a law of diminishing returns by any measure. At fifty years old, if things went sidewise, it wouldn’t be long before I’d get my ass kicked.

Time to move on-

I’ve collected coins since I was a child. When I broke my leg and was out of school for the entire second grade, my father brought me one of those blue Whitman folder albums for Lincoln cents. He’d buy a couple of rolls of pennies and I’d fill in the holes with appropriate dates and mintmarks and replace worn examples with better ones. Then Dad would gather up the rejects, adding whatever coins needed to make up for what I’d collected, and come home with another couple of rolls. This introduced me to a hobby that I still indulge in, though as I got older, so did the coins. Now, my focus and expertise is centered on ancient issues from Greece, Rome and other historic civilizations.

I acquired a reputation for honesty, knowledge and fair dealing in this esoteric field, but never reached the top. I settled somewhere in the mid-levels of numismatics. Seems, once again, that I wanted to avoid the top echelon. Maybe it was just too much effort to learn what it takes to operate with confidence at those levels. I was afraid of dealing with coins commanding five-figures. I got a lump in my throat when the price went to thousands and I didn’t have the confidence (or funds) to buy higher priced inventory. So I stayed at a level where I’m comfortable and added ancient art and other esoteric objects to my inventory. Bingo! I’m an antiques dealer.

Now I could move from coin shows to antiques shows with a related but larger and far more encompassing customer base. Yes, I still carry ancient coins, but tend to choose inventory with an eye for aesthetics rather than rarity. I understand that eye appeal and history can be more motivation for the average non-numismatist attending an antiques show. Luckily, except for a few exceptions, the coinage of Alexander the Great and the Roman emperors are fairly common in both bronze and silver. The vast majority of coins, even those in nearly uncirculated condition, can be had for under a thousand dollars. (It’s the cheapest way to own ancient art.) Of course, gold coins command higher prices, but I wasn’t comfortable handling them in my inventory. Gold makes people crazy. It turns them into thieves. So I purposely avoided gold and other rarities, though I was still held up at gunpoint in my gallery in 2002.

My crowning achievement in the field was serving five years on the vetting committee for antiquities at San Francisco’s prestigious Fall Antique Show, one of the great annual society events in the city.  

A bout with liver cancer in 2004 signaled the end of exhibiting at shows throughout the western states. I allowed the lease on the gallery to expire. After my liver transplant, I was prescribed marijuana to make a year of Interferon/Ribavirin chemotherapy more bearable. I started growing my own. It wasn’t long before I became the local go-to guy for information on growing and curing this wondrous (and now legal) plant.

Bottom line is, though I never reached the pinnacle of these divergent fields, I wouldn’t have experienced such a variety of careers if I’d become an expert in any one of them.

Expertise is usually attained by focusing on one subject at the expense of everything else. I’ve heard it said that: “Experts are those who have made all the mistakes possible in a very narrow area.” Things worked out that I enjoyed a broader scope of experience.

Time Management and Choosing My Battles

Time management is my biggest battle.

Between having a full-time day job, writing/publishing as Cameron D. James, occasionally writing/publishing under my other pen names, managing Deep Desires Press (which involves a lot of editing and publishing), editing for private clients, and hosting/co-hosting multiple podcasts, I’m a little pressed for time.

And then, no matter how carefully I plan something, it can all get thrown out the window when I obsess over a new project. I’ve mentioned my current New York Heat / New York Ice two-book series. I started mid-December and now, a month later, I have about 80,000 words. But to get to those 80,000 words, I ended up sacrificing a few important tasks… tasks that I had to do anyway, so I just got way behind on everything.

My to-do list is miles long. I don’t know if I’ll ever finish it. But there’s a constant juggling of priorities – and that shift in priorities can changes weekly or even daily. I have a website I’ve been neglecting to update and I’m fine with those updates being put on hold – but I have a feeling that one day very soon I’m going to decide that those updates take top priority and everything else will be on hold until it’s done. (And it’s pretty big update project.)

What I’ve learned as the key for me being able to accomplish all of this is to carefully divide my time. Before heading to my day job, I have some time to take care of small tasks. At work, if it’s quiet, I can work on some editing. At lunch, I do social media or tasks that can’t wait. In the evening and on the weekend, I do the longer things – writing, publishing, and paperwork.

Amazingly, I still have a social life. My husband makes sure that I have one.

Thankfully, my husband is a writer/editor too and co-manages Deep Desires Press with me, so he’s completely sympathetic and supportive of the insane number of projects that I take on. I wouldn’t be able to manage this if I had a different partner (or if I had kids).

But for all the careful work I put into time management and balancing my projects so that there’s forward momentum on everything, I still (frustratingly) can be reactive and impulsive. Just before writing this blog post, I stumbled across a call for submissions for a publisher and within ten minutes I had a plot worked out in my head. I’m itching to write this. But to do so would likely mean a new pen name (as it’s sweet MF romance and wouldn’t fit with any of my current names) and taking time away from all of the other important projects I’ve got going on. I'm battling in my head, going between my desire to take on the challenge of this project and the reality of the fact that I simply don't have time.

Sigh… I’ll work it in somehow, I guess.

Maybe I can give up sleeping.

Cameron D. James is a writer of gay erotica and M/M erotic romance; his latest release is Schoolboy Secrets. He is publisher at and co-founder of Deep Desires Press and a member of the Indie Erotica Collective. He lives in Canada, is always crushing on Starbucks baristas, and has two rescue cats. To learn more about Cameron, visit http://www.camerondjames.com.

Choosing My Battles, Battling My Choices

Sacchi Green


I’m struggling to remember some light, amusing incidents from an editorial perspective, but continuing personal struggles keep getting in the way, and I really don’t want to go there.

 Hmm. Oh, wait, here’s one example I used just last weekend, when I was on a panel about writing erotica at a science fiction/fantasy convention in Boston. In this case I didn’t choose my battle so much as limit my attack.

A very famous writer/publisher in the lesbian fiction genre had sent me a story for an anthology, at the request of my co-editor at the time. This writer/publisher’s name would certainly be an asset to our book, and the story was okay, but there was one notable phrase she used three times, which in itself would have been cause for raised editorial eyebrows. Not only that, but I had recently seen a discussion on a private web site focused on that genre where several people whose opinions I valued were taking exception—okay, jeering—at that writer’s use of that very same phrase in another book. Time for a bit of editorial diplomacy. I had a casual professional relationship with this writer, nothing personal; she’d used my work in anthologies several times, we’d met briefly at conventions, I’d arranged a couple of readings for a few of our anthologies combined, and she’d participated (staying only long enough to read her own pieces,) and we’d been finalists for a few literary awards (she’d won, I hadn’t, yet.) In any case, I didn’t come down hard and ask her not to use that phrase at all. I chose a semi-battle. “This image is so striking that it shouldn’t be used more than once in a short story. Repetition in this case would diminish any positive effect. Let’s just stick with the first reference.” She acceded, rather grumpily. That particular anthology did go on to win the Lambda Award for lesbian erotica, beating one of hers. I wonder, did her book also used her apparent trademark phrase, “milking her clit?”

Still in a literary context, I think I’ve already mentioned (too often) that I’m in the throes of trying to write a novel, my first attempt, and finding being severely edited by someone else to be hard to take. On the whole I’ve chosen to accede to almost every demand and comment, with a few exceptions, and even to ignore the multitude of deletions, although I do insist on revising the remarkable number of her insertions to phrase them in my own style, even when that fails the “pulp fiction” requirement. My characters don’t roll that way. But instead of agonizing over most of the edits, when a section is done, including the requested re-writes, I copy it, mark the copy “accept all,” and then read through to see what I absolutely have to fix. Never mind what’s been deleted unless it clearly makes the document make no sense.

I’ll just touch briefly on the personal side of my battles, which is where “battling my choices” comes in. The thing is, I can almost never be sure that my choices were right, or, in fact, that there were (and are) any right choices. I’ve mentioned before, I think, that one of my sons has been diagnosed as having Asperger’s Syndrome. Raising any child involves a great deal of choosing your battles, and with neuro-atypical children the battles can expand beyond the child to include educational bureaucracies, etc. The hardest times were when there seemed to be only battles and no real choices. Now things are at a liveable equilibrium, but I’ll always be second-guessing myself, never knowing whether different choices would have made things better or worse, or even been possible.

Now I’m faced with choices that may not be choices at all with regard to my 98-year-old father, who has finally reached the stage where he can’t care for himself and needs more care than I can give—or could I if I really tried? A week and a half ago we moved my father to a nursing home near me, a choice he doesn’t want but accepts because it makes things easier for me. Meanwhile I battle with the choice I’ve made, even though it’s as much a decree from the doctors and physical therapists as a choice.

Kind of makes choosing battles in a literary context seem like a picnic in the park.

Everybody's a Critic

by Jean Roberta

Please forgive the lateness of this post. I've been working my way through piles of student assignments.

I tell myself that other people’s opinions of me can’t pierce my armour. Not any more. Who am I fooling?

I recently got three sets of anonymous student evaluations from my Fall (September-December) classes. The questionnaire asks a lot of questions, to be answered on a scale of 1-5. (Example: How heavy is the workload in this class? How knowledgeable is the instructor? How fair are the grading standards?) Then there is space for written comments.

In all fairness to the hordes of random students who are herded into my mandatory first-year English classes, I get consistently high scores in certain areas. Most of them think I know my subject quite well, and most of them admit that I rarely cancel classes. Many of them say I’m friendly and approachable. This year, a few said they found me funny and entertaining.

Then there are the haters.

The most common complaint was that I’m completely disorganized, and I ramble on about irrelevant topics.

According to current rules, I have to plan out my whole semester in advance, and get my course outlines approved by a committee. (Ironically, I now belong to that committee because the English Department has shrunk so much due to government cutbacks that “conflict of interest” seems like an outdated principle.)

At the beginning of a semester, I explain to my classes that first-year English used to be divided into three parts, like ancient Gaul: one-third fiction or drama, one-third poetry, and one-third grammar/composition. By popular demand, non-fiction was added about ten years ago, but composition is still supposed to take up one-third of class time. So if I’m teaching three days per week, I do fiction/non-fiction on Mondays, composition on Wednesdays, and poetry on Fridays. Most students seem to understand this when I explain it aloud after handing out copies of the syllabus.

I try to find the best ways to explain literary and grammatical concepts to students who are unfamiliar with them. So I use metaphors, tell anecdotes, and draw cartoons on the blackboard, all with the goal of enabling students to understand what they read, and express ideas accurately in standard English.

Apparently, this is not what some students see or hear when they sit in the back of my classes, daydreaming, doodling, or sending text-messages on their phones.

One student complained that I spend too much time writing on the blackboard instead of teaching.

Several pointed out bitterly that I cancelled ONE class in the Fall semester, probably because I didn’t want to teach. (Actually, some workmen had to fix my furnace to satisfy the requirements of the government power company, and my spouse said she didn’t want strange men to be in and out of our house all day, possibly letting our confused pets run out to the street. No one else could be found to house-sit, so I explained my need for a day off to the department head, who told me it wouldn’t be a problem.)

Several students complained that I always started the class late. Actually, I was always there on time, according to my watch, but when the class was scheduled to begin, there was always a late student (or 3, or 6) wandering in, so I would start lecturing when I hoped there would be no more distracting arrivals.

Many students complained on the questionnaire that I didn’t spend enough time teaching grammar, which is a hard subject, and then I gave low marks for bad grammar on assignments. Other students complained that I spent too much time teaching grammar in a class that was supposed to be more fun and interesting.

Several students pointed out that I lacked the power to “engage” them, to keep them focused. One critic said he/she would have learned more if I had used Powerpoint instead of writing on slate with chalk or on vinyl with felt marker, as in Days of Yore.

In effect, an alarming number of students seemed to think I’m a boring old woman who has nothing to teach that they want to learn. And I’m a snob, if not a downright bigot, because I give low marks to students who are not fluent in written English. And I never explain what I want!!

Maybe I was especially shaken by these barbs because I had spent the last year (mid-summer 2016 to September 2017) on sabbatical, away from the daily grind of the classroom.

For years, I’ve been alarmed by the unpreparedness of first-year students who didn’t do much writing—or learn any grammar--in local secondary schools, or who were recruited in other countries, and came to Canada with a sketchy knowledge of English. For years, most of my students have asked that their shortcomings be overlooked because they need to get passing grades in mandatory classes. For years, spokespeople for the English Department (usually the department head) have begged the university administration for more resources to cope with the great unwashed horde that needs to learn comprehension and composition skills in a university where English is the default language.

Last year, the English Department voted overwhelmingly to impose a prerequisite (a certain grade point in an English-speaking secondary school, or a remedial class) on students who register for a first-year English class. The administration shot this down on grounds that it would limit students’ “freedom of choice.” Why shouldn’t they pay full tuition to take a course they can’t pass? And then pay again, as many times as it takes?

The push for more remedial composition classes needs to come from the students. I said this in an editorial that ran in the student newspaper in 2015 (which might have been read by five people), and I’ve said this directly to students in my classes. A preparatory class that would increase student literacy and fluency would be easier to pass than a first-year literature-and-composition class, and it would increase students’ chances of passing everything they would take after that. A petition, signed by many students, would probably move the administration more than the usual recommendations from the English Department.

It seems I’m screeching into the wind. The last thing most of my students want is to take another English class. They don’t see the power of the administration, and they probably wouldn’t recognize an administrator if they saw one, even though the expensive suit might be a clue.

To too many students, English instructors who use words that sound like Greek, or Klingon, then hand out failing grades like the Red Queen beheading peasants, are the monsters who prevent students from going home to Timbuktu (or the family farm near Outlook, Saskatchewan) with a university degree. We are the gatekeepers that the students need to get past, and they resent us accordingly.

It hurts, I’ll admit, but for some reason, I still feel called to this work. And I don’t have many years left before I retire, probably when I’m seventy. I have freedom of choice too.

If and when I reach my limit, I could put in my notice immediately. I could be replaced. This knowledge is both comforting and depressing.

For the meanwhile, I’ll soldier on, not expecting any miraculous changes.

When it just keeps happening, how do you not give up?

by Giselle Renarde

Some people have the energy to fight endless battles. Well, that's some people. That's not Giselle.

When I first started writing, I wasn't so aware of the business side of things. I didn't know how publishing worked, and I didn't need to know. I wrote stories for anthologies, submitted them to editors, and the rest basically took care of itself.

Then, I became aware of ebooks. So I started submitting to publishers and getting rejected, submitting again, getting rejected again, and finally seeing some success in the form of acceptance letters. Happy Days.

But I still wasn't much part of the publishing process.

It was only when a lot of my old publishers went under and I started self-publishing that I learned about things that hadn't even been considerations, previously. Like staying away from certain keywords when you publish erotica, because they'll get your book banned, or at least relegated to an adults-only dungeon--which is so much less fun without the beaded curtains. Why can't cyber-dungeons have beaded curtains? Riddle me that, internet.

Anyway, I've learned a lot over the past... holy shit, five years? Did I really start self-publishing that long ago?  Feels like only yesterday. I feel like a babe in the self-publishing world, while simultaneously feeling like Methuselah for remembering what things were like before Amazon.

What is the point you're trying to make, Giselle?

Thanks for asking. I was getting off-track, there.

The point is, I've seen a lot of corporate censorship of my work. A lot. So much.  Like, it's crazy how much.

If you're an erotica writer, I guarantee someone somewhere is going to ban your books. How can I guarantee that? Isn't it true that only filthy nasty smut gets banned, these days?  Nope. Not true in the least. There are a lot of ebook retailers that refuse to stock erotica on their shelves at all.

Okay. Well. I guess that's their right.

Am I chill about that?  Should I be chill about it?  I don't even know anymore. I've just seen so much rejection. But this is different than the rejections I received as an author submitting my work to publishers. With publishers, if I changed this or that, or if I improved my craft or whatever, there was a chance the next submission might be accepted.

Not so in the case of retailers who don't stock erotica. Better erotica is still erotica. The best erotica is still erotica. And they won't have it. So there's nowhere to go from here. Not with them.

But, like, at least those guys are clear from the outset that they don't accept erotica. They don't sell it. They don't want it.

Is that better or worse than Barnes and Noble, which used to carry every kind of erotica under the sun and now... doesn't?

Here's what happened, if you're not aware: for many, many years, Barnes and Noble sold erotica of all stripes. That includes bestiality. That includes rape. That includes incest and pseudo-incest.

And then, overnight, everything changed.

Barnes and Noble decided they didn't want any of that extreme sexual content on their shelves. Okay. Again, that's their right. It sucks because I was just starting to make good money off Lexi's PI and a few incest titles, but nothing gold can stay.

The thing they did that was super-super-shitty was they actually closed down offenders' accounts. Immediately. Without warning! So one day it's fine to publish anything you like, and the next day it's against the rules and we see that, in the past, you've published content that offends us in the present, so bye-bye account?  That's ludicrous. But it happened.

Don't worry. I've saved the best for last.

The best of the worst has got to be Playster. They didn't want erotica on their shelves, so you know what they did? THEY REMOVED ALL GAY AND LESBIAN CONTENT. For real. This is a thing that happened.

Because everybody knows we queers are bound to sneak not only our gay agenda but also RAUNCHY SEX into everything from sweet romances to cozy mysteries.

If you do a quick google search, you'll notice a lot of the posts around this topic say the issue is "resolved." Which is true in the sense that all those innocent LGBT books have been reinstated on Playster's shelves. But "resolved" in the larger sense? I think not.  LGBT content is constantly being blocked, being banned, being quietly removed while the overseeing bodies hope nobody notices. A public outcry is bad for business, after all.

And here's where I circle back to what I said at the beginning.

Some people have the energy to fight these endless battles. Last year taught me that I'm no longer one of those people.

When I found out what Playster was doing, did it fill me with so much moral outrage that I blogged about it immediately? Sadly, no. It made me depressed, sure. But I sighed and said, "This again?" and I didn't do a thing. Because I've been through this shit so many times, as a queer writer.

And as a queer erotica writer? Well that's a double-whammy if ever there was one.

When Barnes and Noble took down the very books that were earning me the most money, I don't think I mentioned it to anyone. That was another momentary sigh. My battle wouldn't be with the company. My battle wouldn't even be a battle. My process would be to find the next thing that'll earn a buck.

Because a queer's gotta eat.

The Art of War (and BDSM)

I had a colleague who was fond of quoting from Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. Much of what is in that book makes a great deal of sense, even two and a half thousand years later, but my favourite quote is this one:

The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting

I think the modern translation would go something like ‘get others to do as you want, but make them think they’re doing what they want.” I suppose it’s even better if the other person is actually doing what they want. Many of my stories feature BDSM relationships, often new relationships where the submissive is just discovering the exquisite magic to be found in pain, and sometimes making those discoveries against their better judgement. In real life, of course, people go into D/s play with their eyes open, those are the rules – safe, sane, consensual – but I like to think a little angst makes for a better story. After all, I don’t write training manuals.

A couple of OGGs ago I mentioned getting back the rights to some of my earlier work. One of those stories soon to revert to me is Sure Mastery, a trilogy whose main female character has more than a few battles to face and she becomes very skilled at choosing when to stand up for herself, then going for it. Ashley contrives to get her abusive boyfriend arrested when he pushes her too far, but finds herself reluctantly submitting to a spanking from an angry Dom she hardly knows. In fairness, on that first occasion she has little choice in the matter (yes, I know, I know), but the next time he suggests he might punish her she’s not having it. This excerpt is Ashley making a stand, and meaning it.

“I’ve never done much ironing. Maybe I should just leave that, or practise on tea towels or something…”

He fixes me with a glare, the mossy glint in his eyes chilling. “Practise on your own tea towels if you must, in your own time. But you’re on my time now and I want you to iron my shirts, jeans and bedding. Maybe a sweatshirt or two, whatever’s in there. And anything you ruin gets added onto your debt. Or maybe I’ll just take it out of your hide. Again.” His lips quirk. He’s probably joking. Maybe. But those jibes and veiled threats sting, they hurt me, undermine my fragile self-confidence, every time. And as far as I’m concerned there’s no funny side to this. He needs setting straight.

I take a deep breath, set my shoulders and lift my chin. Best to look the part. And I go for it.

“No, Mr Shore. You won’t. You won’t lay a finger on me again. In any circumstances.”

Now I do have his attention. He regards me quizzically before leaning back in his chair, his booted feet up on the spare seat next to him. That hard emerald glitter is fixed on me. “Do go on, Ashley. I get the impression you’ve something you want to say.” His tone is soft, but I’m not misled by that. I square my shoulders again, I can’t back down now.

I clutch my mug of coffee to stop my hands shaking, but this is my opportunity, maybe the only chance I’ll get to set out my stall, and I need to do it quickly. “You caught me at a disadvantage that first time when you, when you…”

“When I stripped you naked, put you over my knee and spanked you?” he puts in helpfully.

I know my face is beetroot, the very memory of how he treated me that day, how I let him treat me, mortifying. After everything I’ve been through, that I could allow such a thing to happen to me… I stare into my coffee for a few moments, regrouping. But the words are not to be stopped. “Yes. That. I should never have let you do that. You had no right.”

“I don’t remember giving you much choice, to be fair.”

“Well, whatever, like I told you then, I’m not a punchbag or a doormat. Not anymore. I lived with a violent man, a man who thought it was okay to kick me around when he felt like it. Even to rape me. But I left Kenny, and I started again. I’m different now, and I won’t let any man think he’s got a right to hit me just for scorching his shirts. Or for anything. I’ll do my best with the ironing, but if I spoil your clothes I’ll pay you for any damage in cash. But I won’t work for you for any longer than we agreed, and I won’t let you hit me again.”

No? What are you going to do about it then? I wait, defiant, for the inevitable response. And even before he calls my bluff I’m starting to consider, and dismiss, my options. Walk out? To go where? Call the police? Yeah, right. I’ve marched myself into a corner and I’ve no real way out I can see. What an idiot.

And to top it all, my voice was cracking by the time I finished my little speech and I’m horrified at what I’ve let slip. I never intended to tell anyone about being raped, least of all this overbearing bully who came close to doing the same thing to me, only stopping because he doesn’t find me even attractive enough for that. Thank God. But I should never have mentioned it—it’s still too painful to talk about, too personal and too raw. A long silence follows my little outburst. He doesn’t move, but I can feel his eyes on me. Watching, assessing. I wait for his next attack.

Instead, “He raped you? Kenny?” The question is soft, gentle.

I nod. “Yes. Twice.”

“Did you report it to the police?”

Ah, here we go. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I lived with him, slept with him, had sex with him regularly. Who’d have believed me that once or twice it was against my will? And… I was scared of him.”

He nods, doesn’t press me further, seems to accept this explanation. “I knew he was a vicious git. I saw the way he treated you that night. I just didn’t realise… I understand now why you were afraid of Nathan and me when we came to your cottage.” He hesitates, his gaze softening. “I’m sorry for that, and for the way I spoke to you afterwards. I was insensitive and cruel. You are safe here, with me. I hope you can believe that.” He reaches out, tips my chin up with his fingers, gently raising my eyes to his.

I hold his gaze, assertive Ashley back on her soapbox. “Yes, I do believe that. But only because you don’t fancy me. I’m too scrawny, ‘not enough to go around’ I think you said.” The bitter sting of those cruel, dismissive words still bites. Hard. Without thinking about possible consequences I press my point. “And I’m not having any more of that from you either. No more insults, no more belittling me with your personal comments. I won’t let you make me feel small again. Just leave me be, and if you’ve nothing nice to say about me then keep your opinions to yourself, please.”

Gently cupping my chin with his palm, he holds my gaze, his gorgeous eyes now warm, tender almost. And I see respect starting to dawn there. At last, he speaks, his tone low, serious. A hint of admiration there, just maybe.

“Well said, Ashley. You’re right, and I apologise. For the things I said to you, back then and just now. I was rude, cruel, and what I said wasn’t true. The truth is, you’re so lovely you take my breath away—especially naked.”

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