by Kristina Wright
Horror was my genre of choice for most of my teen years. Nothing was too scary. Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Peter Straub, , Richard Matheson, Clive Barker... they were my heroes. I read the classics-- Dracula, Frankenstein, Poe's short stories and poetry. I saw all of the horror movies. The Evil Dead, Rosemary's Baby, Burnt Offerings, The Omen, The Exorcist... I loved them all. Unlike Charlotte, there were a couple of horror novels that did scare the bejesus out of me, most notably King's Pet Sematary. Holy freakin' crap, that book scared the hell out of me. I had to put it away for a couple of weeks and the only way I could finish it was to read it during the daytime. ::shiver::
I have become a big 'fraidy cat in my old age. I don't watch many horror movies anymore. Even those grainy trailers for the Paranormal Activity movies freak me out. I won't see anything that has children in it. Children in horror movies = terrifying. But it's not just children in horror movies that scare me. It's anything kid related that has been used in a horror movie. I'm afraid of baby monitors. Seriously. I rarely use the one we have because the quiet static is creepy and every sound is amplified to a nerve wracking level that reminds me of a horror movie. I'm terrified that I'm going to dream about one of the babies whispering, "I'm coming to kill you, mama," and wake up from the nightmare to discover it isn't a dream. Ahhhhhhhh!
When I lost my taste for horror films, I started avoiingd the movies that involved supernatural elements-- demons and ghosts and the like. Then I stopped watching anything seemed like it could happen because, hey, it could happen. Now I even stay away from the horror that's seems more like over-the-top blood fest than horror. A coworker loaned me the first Saw movie several years ago and I returned it to her three months later, unwatched. Just the concept freaked me out. I really have no idea how realistic/scary the Saw movies are. I just can't watch them to find out. Sigh. I'm a wimp now.
My Barnes & Noble has done away with the horror section and books that were once considered horror have been reshelved in general fiction or fantasy and science fiction. There seems to be a lot of Young Adult horror. I suppose there just aren't many writers writing horror anymore? Or has the fantasy genre simply been expanded to include horror and sparkly vampires and anything that isn't grounded in reality? Or is it the horror genre that has become so diluted and vague that it no longer fits its own description? I really don't know. I still read horror or horror-ish stories, but I rarely realize that what I'm reading is horror until I'm well into the story. Probably for the best--otherwise I would miss some really great authors.
The thing that always stood out to me about horror was how few women horror writers there were (are?). I have no explanation for that, either. It's just one of those things that has always puzzled me. Is it a gendered thing-- men won't read horror written by women? Women are perceived as being too "soft" to write good horror? Women aren't interested in writing horror? (I know better than that.)
I am delighted to know three women authors who have sent a few shivers up my spine. One is our own Charlotte Stein, whose story "Dolly" in Red Velvet and Absinthe gave me chills the first time I read it and I still read it two more times. Charlotte is one of the funniest writers I know--but she is also one of the best at creating dark, descriptive pieces that leave me with goosebumps.
Then there's Kristina Lloyd, whose story "Living Off Lovers" in my anthology Dream Lover, was described by one reviewer as "probably the creepiest" story in the collection. And it is! But it's also erotic as hell and worth more than one read. Trust me.
The best horror story I've read in the past several years (straight horror, with no erotica or romance chaser to give my poor faltering heart something else to focus on) is Shanna Germain's Trill. This one will stay with you, folks. It's truly... horrific. Seductively so. I've read it several times, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when every muscle in my body goes tense. The moment when I want to stop reading. That moment seems to start earlier and earlier every time I read Shanna's story, but yet I still have to finish reading it. Again. Every time. Even though I know how it ends and that I will not like it even though I love it. Read it and tell me I'm wrong. Read it and try to stay relaxed and not hold your breath and not cringe and not squirm in your seat with discomfort. The kind of discomfort that starts as a little bug crawling on the hairline at the back of your neck and ends with you clawing at your own flesh just to make it stop.
Whew. I may not read (or watch) much anymore, but I still love horror. And I hate that I love it.
Now that I have blood under my nails, I think I'll say good night.
Showing posts with label Charlotte Stein. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Charlotte Stein. Show all posts
Friday, December 30, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Writing Voice
By Kristina Wright
Like Charlotte, I fear I'm a failure at writing in someone else's voice. Though I don't consider Charlotte a failure at anything writing related. I'm so in awe of her unique writing voice that I considered trying to imitate her, but I knew I couldn't come close to mimicking her humor. I tried to come up with an author I could imitate and I couldn't come up with one. Nothing but an echo in my brain, I'm afraid.
So here I am, thinking about authorial voice without a real blog post to match the theme. (And no sexy men to share like Charlotte.) I admire writers who can mimic another author's voice. It's a bit like duplicating a Van Gogh, isn't it? To study an author's work-- as unique as his or her fingerprint-- and manipulate your own words to match the magic of the original? Daunting, to say the least. Impossible, in my case.
About a decade ago I was offered the opportunity to "audition" for a role as a writer for a popular teen fiction series. The author whose name graces the covers of the dozens of books in the series has long since stopped writing, but her voice lives on thanks to the handful of writers commissioned to write like her. It was a lucrative gig and it didn't feel like it would be terribly difficult to imitate the voice of the original author. Boy, was I wrong.
I read three of the books and sat down to write my own three-chapter proposal. Within paragraphs, I found myself slipping out of the original author's voice and back into my own. Frustrated, I wrote and rewrote those chapters, beating them into submission until I had come as close as I was ever going to manage to sounding like the woman who created the series. I spent more time editing than I did writing-- changing words and phrases, writing and rewriting the dialogue of beloved characters that fans of the series know as well as they know their own families. Finally, I shipped off my proposal with something close to confidence. I'd spent three times longer writing those chapters than anything I'd ever written under my own name-- surely I had nailed it. Did I already mention how wrong I was?
The rejection was nice. Complimentary, even. But I didn't get the gig because after all that work I still hadn't managed to capture the original author's voice. I guess I knew that even as I was printing those crisp pages to send off for consideration, but we writers sometimes suffer delusions of grandeur. (Or is it just me?) I knew my writing was strong and the chapters-- read independent of the series they were based on-- were solid. But that simply wasn't enough. I had to sound like the author and I am apparently tone deaf when it comes to any voice but my own.
And-- this is embarrassing to admit-- I don't think I took the assignment seriously enough. This wasn't Shakespeare or Austen or Chandler-- this was a YA series that was never going to win any awards but had managed to attract a large and loyal following. I made the fatal mistake of assuming I was at least as good a writer as the creator of the series. Hell, maybe I am. But even at my best, I could not manage to duplicate her. Lesson learned the hard way.
So rather than torture you with my half-assed attempt at duplication I thought I'd share this anecdote of my professional failure. Because, to be honest, I don't have enough time in any given day right now to try to write like someone else-- I can barely find time to write like myself. And I know that all these years later I couldn't do any better a job than I did then. That's not to say my own voice is so amazing and unique (as I think Charlotte's is) that I can't sound like anyone but myself. No, I wish that were true. I just think I lack whatever skill it takes to duplicate another author.
So thanks to my peers for showing me how it's done-- I'm truly impressed with your lovely efforts. And thanks, dear Charlotte, for sharing the hot men and making me feel a little less lonely in the "failure to write to theme" category. I'm honored to share your company.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Hot Self-Loving
By Charlotte Stein (Guest Blogger)
I’ve recently started a story about a woman whose furtive masturbatory endeavours get her into all sorts of trouble. And I kind of wanted to talk about that, and how women never admit that they like to diddle themselves, even though any reasonable person would probably go insane if they didn’t rub one out on their happy pillow seventeen times a day.
Or is that just me?
But seriously though, that’s not me. I almost never use a pillow.
Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, what I wanted to talk about. Which is women and empowerment and doing yourself, etc etc. Only as is so often the case with me, I found my mind wandering to the thing it always wanders to, on those cold lonely nights with my pillow, Dave.
Cocks. Because I love cocks, and HOMG I love them even more when they’re being stroked. Hopefully by some dude who thinks he’s being sneaky, probably as he lurks in the men’s bathrooms of the office he works at, gasping against tightly pressed together lips with his hand probably stuffed into his pants because dear God no, he can’t do it right out in the open!
Especially when I’m only too willing to burst into said bathroom, and kick in the stall door, and most likely catch a dude having an innocent poo on the toilet.
But seriously, here’s a short excerpt from my latest just-handed-in-novel, Control, about how much I like the idea of catching dudes doing naughty things:
‘Gabe, are you all right in there?’ I say, and it’s so much like a game I could cry with happiness. I can feel it filling my chest as much as it’s filling other places, even when I try to hold it down.
Don’t, I think, don’t, but then he answers:
‘I’m fine. Really. Don’t come in here.’
And I’m not sure I can stop it. He’s playing, with me. It’s obvious. I think he means it, but at the same time...
The door won’t be locked. I know it before I even get close to trying it. And I just reach out and turn the handle and push it open, not quite bursting in because I’ll never be Delaney, but close enough.
He has his trousers shoved down— not around his ankles, in a pathetic puddle. Taut between his legs, and no further than mid-thigh. He hasn’t taken the underwear off, and it flashes pink and gleaming against his delightfully hairy and finely muscled thighs.
I can’t see his balls, because the elastic is cutting over them— likely too tight for comfort. Though I suppose that’s the point. It doesn’t seem to be putting him off to have a pair of little knickers, digging into him.
Quite the contrary. His cock’s in his fist, the ruddy tip peeping between his tense, squeezing fingers, everything so clearly ready to go off that I freeze in delicious anticipation. I run my gaze all over this frankly startling tableau — one that’s so sexy and dirty and fabulous that I’m sure he must have planned it just so, oh God, you little whore — just waiting for it to happen.
But I guess he’s in no rush.
And now you’re thinking that I hang around in noted masturbation spots, waiting to jump out on unsuspecting men. Does it say something about me that now all I can think is: IS there such a thing as a noted masturbation spot? If I go down to Kew Gardens one day and visit their animal topiary, will I find Furtive Freddy pulling on his plonker, behind the leafy hippo?
Because grudamn, let me get my butt down there, immediately. Men of the world, beware. I’m addicted to your wanking, and I’m only too willing to resort to nefarious means, to catch you at it.
Charlotte Stein has been writing for over ten years, and perving on hot dudes for even longer than that. However, it’s only recently that she’s had the courage to pair the two together and pen some critically acclaimed, steamy-hot erotic romances. She lives in Brit-land with her very own hunk of manbeef, and their imaginary dog.
You can find her at
www.themightycharlottestein.blogspot.com, usually in the middle of rambling about nonsense, squee-ing over her totally unexpected life as a writer, and generally lusting after seriously sexy men.
Control, her novel about a woman who can’t decide between a submissive and a dominant, can be pre-ordered here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Control-Charlotte-Stein/dp/1907016449/
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