Many Voices

When I saw the topic for this week, the little voices in my head all started fighting for my attention.

"Pick me!" demands Orziel, the half-demon bastard from my first book. He's a pretty demanding, even imperious character for someone who's got no station in life and no power to back up his massive ego. Still he can be pretty persuasive.

"Pick me," he says again, this time purring in my ear as he stands behind me and rubs my shoulders. "I'm your first, and your favorite. When you write me, you get to do such nasty things like seduce pretty boys or scheme against evil empresses. If you pick me, you can spend the rest of the blog post watching me pit my two lovers against each other in an oral sex competition to see who can make the other come first."

That's Orziel all right. Manipulative, sex-obsessed and about as subtle as a 2x4 to the forehead.

"Oh screw this chump," Bernice rasps. She shoves Orziel aside and slides a plate of huevos rancheros in front of me, plus a steaming hot cup of joe. "You know you want to write about a real character, someone who defies all expectations and makes your readers laugh to boot. I'm the character for the job and you know it."

Yes, Bernice definitely is a character. At seventy-two, she's the only woman I know of brave enough to match a leopard print mini-skirt with a Grateful Dead tank top and top the whole deal off with an electric pink faux-hawk. She's also got a kick-ass collection of heavy metal CDs and she can cook like nobody's business.

"Oh please!" The Silver Panther pushes in front of Bernice and stretches to show off the aging but still fine feline physique beneath his silver costume. "Our beloved author is looking for a main character today, not some secondary wanna-be. Pick me, sweet-cheeks, and we'll definitely have some fun. It's been ages since I've tried to blow up Super City, and I'm just dying to talk about my sexual exploits as a super-villain extraordinaire."

Bernice shoves a finger in the Panther's face. "You know pal, I may be a few years older than you, but I'm willing to bet I can prove you don't have nine lives."

"Is that so, Grandma?" The Panther shakes his hips, making the tail on his costume swish back and forth. "Bring it, old lady! I'll chew you up like a cheap cat toy and spit you back up again!"

Orziel sighs and fondles the boy toy he's dug up from somewhere. "Good. While you two work that out, I've got something to show dear Helen. You remember Jarresh, right?" Orziel says to me. The slim redhead on his lap has better hair than I do and far nicer lingerie. "He's got the most amazing mouth, and I just love the way he dances," Orziel purrs. He slips a finger in the waistband of Jarresh's loincloth. "You really were on the ball when you created him."

Jarresh doesn't say anything. He just smiles, blushes, and arches back against Orziel. That pretty little slut knows he's got it good right now. In the next book, I'm going to have to take him down a peg or two.

But first I have to sort things out between Bernice and the Silver Panther before they destroy my office. Assuming I can get to them. The room is starting to get a little crowded now as more and more characters clamber around, each demanding their moment in the spot light. Even Diane Horner, the forty-something mom who's just sitting quietly at my desk searching the internet for gay porn, is making her presence known. Especially when she finds certain pictures of a dark-haired young man doing nasty things in a cheap motel room.

"I'll just leave this up here," she says, vacating my chair so I can sit and write my blog post. "I bookmarked a few sites. You can browse through them while you decide who you really want to write about."

Damn, damn, damn. So many characters, so little time. And so very little office space. They're all pressed up against me now, and not a damn one of them is behaving properly. I guess that's how I know they're good characters. They don't listen to me, the author. They don't do what I want them to do. They've got minds of their own and they take off in whatever direction they want to go, carefully plotted story outlines be damned. With such a cast of strong-willed individuals, how can I pick just one to be my favorite?

"Excuse," I hear a soft voice say, "I know you're busy right now, but could you do something for me? This stupid costume doesn't fit right and I've got a party to go to, remember?"

I look over and see Dana standing at the window, dressed in the badly fitted French maid's outfit I put him in last night. At least I think his name is Dana. Whether or not Dana is a 'he' sort of depends on the time of day and Dana's mood. He... she... fusses with the cheap costume, pulling at the baggy top that's meant to be filled with breasts he/she (ze?) doesn't have. Meanwhile, a tall lanky character that's just as hard to pin down and still doesn't have a name yet is standing in the corner watching Dana struggle with his/her (zer?) outfit.

"I can fix that for you," the unknown says, eyes unreadable behind mirrored sunglasses.

Dana huffs and adjusts the skirt. "I don't even know you yet."

"You will," the unknown character responds. "Pretty soon, you and I are going to get to know each other very, very well."

Dana blushes and turns away, but I see his/her/zer eyes slide back to the unknown character in the corner. Suddenly I know who I want to write about - the unknown, unfinished characters with plans all their own, the ones yet to be fully discovered.

I sit down at my keyboard and begin to type.

All You Need Is Love and a Lot of Spaghettios

Dear Hubster,

By the time you read this, I will probably be in Timonium, Maryland, if I'm lucky. If not, I'll probably be stuck in traffic jam hell, either around DC or Baltimore, or maybe both if the day has been very bad and very surreal. I expect you have already gone to pick up the kids from the bus stop and have explained to them yet again why Mommy isn't home today. No, she's not gone forever. Yes, she's coming back. No, she didn't go crazy and run away to join the circus like she threatened to the other night. Well okay, maybe just a little on that last one.

While you take the kids to swimming classes and karate classes this weekend and do homework with them and try to cajole them into cleaning up a)their bedroom, b)the pile of toys they left in the living room, or c) the unidentifiable mess they left in the bathroom that you would really prefer to not have to deal with yourself, even though you suspect it's only toothpaste mixed with Play-Do, I will be spending the weekend at the Farpoint science fiction convention, promoting my work, selling my books, and talking about speculative fiction erotica, and we both know the most speculative part of erotica in our lives these days is how long the kids will leave us alone if we put a Disney movie on for them to watch while you and I sneek upstairs for some quality Mommy/Daddy alone time. (Answer - about 5 minutes before the youngest comes knocking on the door asking for a glass of pink milk.)

Yes, while you wash the laundry and feed the kids and read "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus!" for the umpteenth time, I'll be sitting in the hotel bar sipping soda and hobnobbing with my fellow writers and podcasters, psyching myself up for my big reading. And while I'm cooing naughty stories to an audience of devoted listeners and curious insomniacs at midnight on Saturday, you'll be crawling into bed, trying to get some rest before you have to get up and go through another full day with the kids by yourself.

It's tough, ain't it? Usually it's you that packs up and leaves for several days while I keep the fires burning at home. Usually it's you headed off to Atlanta or Houston or Orlando while I struggle to get our oldest to finish her homework and do my damnedest to keep the youngest from eating bits of food off the floor (what is with that kid anyway?! Yesterday when she came in from playing, I caught her picking dirty ice out of the soles of her boots and then stuffing it in her mouth! EEEEWWW!!!). Yes, usually it's you doing the jet setting and networking while I scrub peanut butter and jelly out of my hair and promise myself that once the kids go to bed, THEN I can have a drink and collapse on the couch.

But not this weekend. This weekend, you're Mr. Mom and I'm Helen E. H. Madden, speculative fiction erotica writer and podcaster extraordinaire, and a guest at the Farpoint science fiction convention. This weekend, I'll have my three days of glory and self-pimpage and I'll stay up waaaaaaaaaaaaaay past my bedtime and pay for all my meals and my hotel room on your credit card because god knows, no matter how good a writer I am, I still can't pay all my own bills yet.

But you love me anyway, and that's why you agreed to this weekend's lunacy. And I love you right back for it, because weekends like these are what keep me mostly sane. I'll be home Sunday night, I promise.

Love,

Helen

PS - there are left-over Disney Princess Spaghettios in the fridge. If you threaten to throw them out, the girls will beg you not to and then swear they will eat them. But if you reheat them and serve them, the girls will snub them as usual. Again, I ask "What the heck is with these kids?!"

Killing Him Softly with Hot Sweaty Monkey Sex

For once, I know exactly what to write about this week's topic. For once, I have a truly relevant tale to tell. So grab a cup of joe, pull up a chair, and be prepared to listen good.

Sex or love? Let me tell you the first thing that popped into my tiny little brain when I heard about this topic. Some years back, maybe about 9 years ago, the Hubster and I had an incident. Back then, we were hip-deep in a battle against infertility. We'd been trying for a couple of years to get me pregnant with absolutely no success. After the first year on our own, we went to see a doctor and began the agonizing process of tests and treatments and waiting and seeing and hoping and wailing when good ol' Auntie Flow showed up cycle after cycle like clockwork.

Nothing, I mean nothing, kills a couple's sex life like infertility. For months, I was poked and prodded, tested and scrutinized. I had so much blood drawn, my arms looked like the arms of a junkie. I underwent so many pelvic exams, I seriously considered having a speculum permanently installed in my vagina. There were ultrasounds and biopsies and once a very painful test where radioactive dye was shot through my uterus all the way up into my ovaries. Screaming agony, I tell ya.

But that wasn't the worst of it. Oh no, by far what killed our love life was the scheduling. My menstrual cycle had to be tracked, monitored and recorded. That meant every morning when the alarm went off, before I even got out of bed, I had to stick a thermometer in my mouth to check my basal body temperature. If there was a half degree, or even a quarter degree, of deviation from normal, I had to trudge into the bathroom, still blind with sleep, and pee in a cup. My aim is not the best first thing in the morning, so that made the procedure even more fun. Once I had my cup of pee, I had to stick an ovulation test strip in it to see if my hormones were surging in preparation for my monthly egg drop. Depending upon the results of that test, we either could or couldn't have sex for the next week. The time period within five or so days of ovulation was a no-sex zone. The only way sperm was supposed to get into my coochie during that time was via catheter for an inter-uterine insemination.

Of course, the rest of my cycle wasn't much better for sex. I was on hormone therapy to help boost my egg production. That made me all sorts of weepy and bitchy and unpleasant to be around. Though Hubster put up with all of it like the saint he is, I just couldn't bear to be touched. It was like being on permanent PMS overload. I hated it.

So one month, we decided to take a break. We told our doctor we were going to look into seeing a specialist, and until then we were just going to say "Fuck it!" to all the testing and the temperature taking and hormone surge tracking and other crap we'd been dealing with for two years. We were just going to be us for a month or two, husband and wife, a normal couple with maybe a normal sex life. Well, what was normal for us anyway.

It took a couple weeks of being free of the hormone therapy and all that other nonsense, plus a Saturday morning of sleeping very, very late. Ah, I remember that morning well. I woke up feeling rested and refreshed. Warm sunlight spilled through the cracks in the blinds, turning the room a soft, dreamy golden color. When it hit the Hubster, it gave him that special glow that made me think, "Jesus H. Christ! It's been how long since we've had sex?! We got to get busy!! NOW!!"

So at it we went, having the best hot sweaty monkey sex we'd had in ages. And man, it was good, I mean real good. I was hanging on the edge of the bed, shrieking at the top of my lungs, probably scaring the shit out of the neighbors and their dog. The Hubster was going at me like a mean green machine, and when I hit the big O, it was more like the big "OH MY GOD, DON'T EVER EVER STOP!!" It was the longest, bestest multiple screaming orgasm I'd ever had. I came and came and came until the Hubster came.

And then the poor man's eyeballs rolled back up in his head and he collapsed on top of me, dead.

Yes, people, I killed the Hubster. He came and went. And he just lay there on me like a dead weight, pun intended. Now the Hubster and I are the same height, and he only weighs about 35 lbs more than me, but at the time he died, I was in a rather... interesting position, shall we say? And him lying all slumped over on me had me more folded up than a half-finished origami crane.

At first, I thought this was just some kind of joke, him collapsing on me like, that like I'd worn him out. I laughed a little, then started complaining as I began to lose the feeling in my lower legs which were somewhere up behind my ears. I wriggled around a bit until I could finally look the Hubster in the eyes to tell him to knock it off. That was when I saw his face. It was waxy and sickly white, and his eyes were all glassy and empty. Finally realizing something was wrong, I did what any sensible person would do in that situation. I freaked the hell out.

I screamed and thrashed and screamed and struggled and then screamed and writhed until I finally managed to get out from under my darling dead spouse. Then I did the next thing any sensible person would do. I screamed some more and started slapping the Hubster's face.

"DON'T YOU DARE DIE ON ME! DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE! WAKE UP!! WAKE UP!! WAKE UUUUUUUUUUUP!!!!"

You see, at that moment, my entire future flashed before my eyes. It was a future without the Hubster in it and it was not at all pretty because I depended on my darling man for a lot of things, like...

• Tech support and computer repairs. The reason I married a genius was so that I would never have to call some stranger and pay them to fix my computer. At that point, this arrangement had been working smoothly for 8 years. I sure as hell didn't want to change things now!


• The mortgage payment. Sure, I put 15 grand down when we bought the house, but that was all I could do with my weak-ass paycheck. I needed the Hubster to make the monthly payments so I could keep a nice cozy roof over my pointed little head.


• Food. I knew two things about grocery shopping and cooking meals, and those two things were Jack and Shit. Now Jack may be a hottie, but neighter he nor Shit are helpful come dinner time.


• Yard work. To this day, I still do not know how to start our lawn mower, and we live in a home owners association for god's sake! How would I survive if I had to cut my own grass?!

Yes, folks, these were the desperate thoughts running through my panick-striken little brain as I kept slapping my husband's face. After about the seventh or eighth whallop, he finally resurrected, lifted his head, looked at me and said, "What happened?"

"OH MY GOD! YOU DIED! YOU COMPLETELY, TOTALLY DIED ON ME!! AND MY COMPUTER'S BROKE! YOU CAN'T DIE WHEN MY COMPUTER'S NOT WORKING RIGHT!!"

"Really? I died? That's weird..."

And then his eyes rolled back up in his head and he died again!

Well now I was pissed. It was bad enough he had to die on me the first time and completely scare the crap out of me. Now he was just being mean. So I grabbed the Hubster by the shoulders and started shaking him until I could hear his teeth rattle in his skull and I resurrected him again.

"Quit dying on me!" I screeched.

"Okay... okay... sorry..." he mumbled while I propped him upright against a pile of pillows.

I took a few moments to calm down and check his pulse. When it looked like he was planning to not die a third time, I heaved a sigh of relief.

"Don't you ever do that to me again!" I said.

"Yeah, I won't. Hey, what time is it?"

"Almost eleven o'clock," I said.

"Huh. I guess I should get ready for karate class then."

"Oh HELL no! You are not dying on me twice and then trotting off to karate class!" I jumped off the bed and started pulling on clothing. "Your ass is going to the emergency room right now!"

And his ass did go to the emergency room, and the rest of him with it. I got him dressed, piled him into the car, and sped off toward the nearest hospital, where I had to explain to the admissions clerk what had happened to my spouse on that beautiful Saturday morning. And then I had to tell the nurse who checked his vitals. And then I had to explain it to the doctor who was on call that weekend. And then to the tech who ran the EKG that the doctor ordered. And then on Monday I had to explain the whole thing once again to our family physician who called wanting to know just why my twenty-something husband who was in the pink of health had gone to the emergency room on a Saturday to get an EKG. And of course I had to explain to my parents how their son-in-law had almost bought the farm, and his parents...

Wait, did I tell my in-laws? Hmm... I can't recall.

But I did tell all my friends, and now I'm telling all of you because in light of this week's topic, sex or love, I think it's very important that we all learn something from this story. And that lesson is...

Do not attempt to kill the person you love with hot sweaty monkey sex unless you are prepared to live with the consequences!! Okay? We all got that? Any questions?

I thought not. So clean the coffee off your computer screen and go back to your usual routine. I'm going to go wake up the Hubster now.

Home for the Holidays. Ugh!

I know what you're all thinking. I should have picked the topic of New Year's Resolutions for this week. And I would have, if I'd had half a working brain cell left when I sat down to think about my topic for this week. However, back in October when I was thinking about such things, we had already begun the annual "Ramping Up of the Children," better known as the holiday season.

The holidays start around the 1st of October in this house, with me asking the perennial question, "So, what do you want to be for Halloween this year?" Thus begins a Sisyphean struggle on my part to play full-time mom -- sewing costumes, decorating the house, roasting turkeys, and making home made presents -- whilst still keeping up with my almost-full-time workload as writer and artist. As much as I love this time of year, from October 1st through December 31st, I have also begun to dread it. There is just no way anyone who is not superhuman can keep up with everything that's going on.

Life was simpler before I was a parent. The holidays were a breeze back then. But I wasn't a writer back then either. Strangely enough, it was the act of becoming a mother that kick-started my desire to write. Once I had that first screaming, pooping, vomiting bundle of joy in my arms, I realized I had to do something creative with my life. Hell, I had to be something other than a mom or I'd go bat-shit crazy. During those first few months of non-stop diaper changing and breast-feeding, I discovered writing was the best way to relieve the mind-numbing tedium associated with new parenthood. And since I did all my writing while sitting in the glider nursing a squalling infant, it also helped me to ignore the pain of having my nipples chewed off.

As my children have grown, so has my writing career, and keeping up with both is a real balancing act even at the best of times. During the holidays, it's almost impossible to deal with it all. As of today, I've spent two weeks in very close proximity with my off-spring. We have been to parties, visited family, handed out gifts, decorated the house, broken several ornaments, made home-made pot holders and sock puppets, and endured lots of fights. I've managed to squeak in some work here and there, but for the most part I cleared my calendar for the days between Christmas Eve and New Years. Otherwise, I would have killed myself trying to work and be with the family.

As I write this, it's New Year's Eve day and we're approaching the second peak of the annual "Ramping Up of the Children" (the first being Christmas, obviously). The kids are about to embark upon a bacchanalian frenzy of drinking soda and gorging on popcorn whilst waiting for Ryan Seacrest (I miss Dick Clark!) to announce the descent of the world's most important disco ball ever. My kids know nothing of the true meaning of New Year's, just as they know nothing of the true meaning of "Not now, honey. Mommy's writing a story. Yes, of course it's about princesses and unicorns. No, you most certainly may not read it. Not until you're eighteen anyway." They don't know that New Year's means that soon, very soon, I will finally be free of the holiday season for another year. No more will I be besieged by party invitations and gift lists and school pageants. No more will I desperately scour cookbooks for holiday dinner recipes that both children can agree are not "icky" or "puke-worthy." I will not be standing on any more chairs, scraping cookie batter off my ceiling during the latest round of "Hey, you know what would be nice? Let's bake cookies for all our neighbors! Even that cranky old guy who lives down the street and threatens to kill any child who walks on his lawn. Because I said so, that's why!" And no more struggling to write steamy hot sex scenes while listening to the kids screech over who's turn it is to play with the new Tickle Me Elmo or Island Princess Barbie.. No, no more of any of that.

Come Monday, I will pack my little ones off to school and get back to my normal routine. There will finally be time for writing and cartooning and audio production and all the other things I've been jonesing to do the last two weeks. Once more will I pull out the spreadsheet with my carefully planned out schedule, and I will happily check off the little boxes as I go about my orderly day. From 8:30 AM until 3:30 PM, my time will be mine and I'll be diving into to my workload with a vengeance.

Until I realize that the house is too quiet because I'm sitting at my desk all alone. Then I'll bang my head against the monitor and wish that some tiny tot would come ask me for a cup of hot cocoa, if only to distract me from the mountains of work I now have to face.

Happy New Year's, folks. Enjoy the madness while you can.

*****

And just because I can, here are a few of my New Year's Resolutions.

I resolve to...

Not eat anything larger than my head. Unless it's a vegetable, because vegetables are good for me.

Write a minimum of 200 words a day. And some of them might actually be real words!

Drink less coffee. I will accomplish this by finally having that caffeine IV implanted into my arm.

Exercise more... freedom of speech that is.

Break any resolutions that I see fit. What, you expect me to be responsible all year long?

Just Checking...

Who do I write for? ME. But this being Christmas, I suppose I could be nice enough to share. Don't say I never gave you anything...

Just Checking


by Helen E. H. Madden


(originally aired on the Heat Flash Erotica Podcast, December 2007)

"Elf patrol! Open up!"

George stumbled into the living room, fumbling with his robe. Elf patrol? What the hell kind of joke was that to play on Christmas Eve? He flung open his front door, ready to chew out the pranksters, but stopped cold when he saw who was standing there.

"Are you George Greer?"

"Uuuuuuuuh..." George gawked. A midget, an Amazon, and a reindeer stood on his porch.

"I'll take that as a yes," the midget chirped. "Mr. Greer, I'm Fred Finklestein of the Holiday Elf List Patrol. That's H-E-L-P. This is Reggie, the Brown-nosed Reindeer, and uh, my partner, Mable."

"Sable Mable," the Amazon said, with a toss of her glossy black hair. She sauntered into the house, brushing up against George as she passed. She and Fred wore matching red and green outfits, but hers was leather and very low cut.

"Mr. Greer," Fred prattled on. "We're just here to double check the list--"

"List?" George croaked as Mable hitched up her skirt and draped herself across the couch.

"You know," she purred. "The one that decides who gets presents and who gets a lump of coal?"

"Oh! The list!"

"Exactly," Fred chimed in. "Before we can authorize any gift deliveries to this house, we need to ask you just one question. Answer correctly and you'll get your heart's desire. Answer wrong, and well, there will be consequences."

George blinked. "Um, okay. Shoot."

"Mr. Greer, are you now, or have you been, at any point during the past calendar year, to include federal holidays and weekends, with allowances made for standard and daylight savings time, annoying, bawdy, contrary, disobedient, disorderly, evil, exasperating, fiendish, fractious, froward, headstrong, ill-behaved, impish, indecorous, insubordinate, intractable, lewd, mischievous, obscene, off-color, perverse, playful, rascally, raunchy, recalcitrant, refractory, ribald, risque, roguish, rough, rowdy, sinful, teasing, ungovernable, unmanageable, unruly, wanton, wayward, wicked, willful, worthless, or just plain bad?"

"Huh?"

"In English, Floyd," Mable drawled.

"That's Fred!"

"Whatever. Mr. Greer, what Shortie here wants to know is, have you been naughty, or nice?"

Mable got up from the couch and stalked toward George, hips swaying with every step. She pressed up against him, backing him into the artificial tree until the angel on top threatened to fall.

"It's an important question," Mable said, chest heaving with every word. "So think carefully. Have you been a good boy, someone who goes to bed early, never drinks, never fights, never swears - you just stay home every Friday night, safe and snug in bed? Or is there something you've done this past year that you shouldn't have? Something you're ashamed of? Something you wouldn't want Mommy to find out about?"

"Mommy?" George squeaked.

"Mm-hmm," Mabel replied. She leaned closer to whisper in his ear. "Tell me, Georgie, which is it? Naughty or nice?"

George closed his eyes and whimpered. Mabel towered over him, a dark, sultry presence that threatened to eat him alive. Her breath blew hot against his cheek as she waited, like a predator, for his answer.

"Well?" she prompted.

"Um, naughty?"

Mabel stepped back and smiled. "Shortie, you and the reindeer take a hike. Georgie boy is all mine."

As the door slammed shut behind them, Fred threw down his clipboard.

"God dammit! That's the twelfth guy in a row. I don't get it, Reggie. He's got no priors, not even a parking ticket. So why does he fuck it up at the last second by lying about being naughty, huh? Can you explain this to me?"

Reggie peeked through the front window in time to see Mable yank down George's pajama bottoms and draw him over her knee. The man yelped as her gloved hand came down hard across his bare buttocks.

"Well duh!" Reggie said.

The Most Beautiful Noise

The first time involved needles. Big, long, frightening needles. I am not normally bothered by needles, but I had already seen several needles that day, and it was only 8:30AM in the morning.

I sat on an operating table, facing away from the anesthesiologist, trying very hard not to think about what he was doing. "There will be three needles," he'd told me. "First one, then the other, then the final needle, each one getting me a little closer to your spinal chord. You'll feel them go in, and it may hurt a little, but it won't be that bad."

Right.

So I sat, hunched over in my hospital gown, waiting as he swabbed my back and prepped the first needle. Michael, my husband, was not yet allowed in the operating room with me. He had been with me constantly since the day before, not once leaving my side. He knew I was nervous, down right scared even. I hadn't let go of his hand since we'd arrived at the hospital, not until the nurse came to wheel me into the operating room.

I sucked in a sharp breath when I felt a pinch at my back. The first needle going in.

"Steady," the anesthesiologist said.

No husband to hold my hand. No mother either. My mom, a registered nurse who had been with me to every trip I'd ever made to any hospital, was there that morning, too. But she wouldn't be allowed to see me again until after I came out of the recovery room. I think not having her in the OR scared me more than not having Michael in the OR. Mom would have known what was going on. She would have described it to me and kept me calm. But she wasn't allowed in. It was just me and the guy with the needles. Fuck.

Another pinch and another gasp. "Steady," the needle guy said again.

I had forgotten at that point that he was the anesthesiologist, the man responsible for controlling my response to pain and keeping me breathing throughout the upcoming procedure. At that point, he was just the needle guy, the fucker who kept jabbing long pointy things into my back. I did not like him, no matter how pleasant he was, no matter how necessary he was to my life and the life I currently carried inside me. He was the bastard who had said no husband, no mom, just him and me and could I please hold still just a little longer because there was still one last needle to goooooooo...

The numbness came on slow, starting somewhere at my toes and fading up my body oh... so... slowly as the needle guy and a nurse helped me lay back on the table. The table was shaped like a cross and as soon as I was prone, the nurse and the needle guy strapped both my arms down, getting me ready for the c-section I was about to have. Up till that point, I had kept myself calm by taking deep breaths, but then the spinal block hit my lower abdomen and suddenly I couldn't take deep breaths any more and I was strapped to a fucking table like a fucking human sacrifice and where the hell was my fucking husband?!!

It did not help that I could actually see myself reflected in the shiny metal rims of the lights overhead.

Fuck.

I shut my eyes and tried to slow my breathing, to keep from panicking. The OR door opened up and in streamed more nurses and the obstetrician. A curtain went up at my chest, to keep me from seeing what was about to happen, to keep me from panicking at the sight of my skin being slice open, my innards being exposed. Apparently nobody else knew about the shiny metal rims on the lights over head. I suddenly wondered how many other moms-to-be had ended up watching their c-sections being performed thanks to those damned lights.

Oh fuck.

"Is the father on his way?" my obstetrician asked in his crisp, accented voice. He was oh-so-English, and apparently the best guy to go to for a c-section, though neither of those facts was giving me the warm fuzzies at that moment.

"He's coming," one of the nurses replied.

"All right, well let's get started. He'll be here before we're done."

"Oh, that's lovely!" I wanted to stand up and scream. "Can't you just wait another goddam minute? This is only the birth of our first child!"

But I was tied to the table and numb from the waist down anyway, so no standing and screaming for me.

Later on, Michael would tell me he came in just as the doctor cut me open. My lower abdomen burst like an over-sized water balloon, a detail that I actually never saw because once everyone crowded around me, my view of the lights overhead was blocked. Michael took a seat next to me at the head of the OR table. I felt a strange tugging sensation on my lower body.

"You feel anything?" the needle guy asked.

"It's like they're pulling stuff around down there," I told him.

"No pain though, right?" he grinned at me.

"Yeah, no pain."

No pain, but still plenty of panic. Michael leaned over and pressed his head to mine. I had so wanted to do this naturally. I had spent four years fighting to get pregnant. The conception of our child was not the result of two people entwined in bed, bodies so close that one was inside the other, but of a catheter fed up my vagina and through my cervix, the push of a button sending millions of sperm collected from my husband into my carefully prepared uterus. I was grateful for the results of that miracle of science, but so frustrated that once again science had to intervene to make this child happen. My baby hadn't turned, I would not go into labor. Was my body ever going to do anything like it was supposed to?

"What's going on?" I asked Michael, who could see over the partition at my chest. "What are they doing down there?"

"The doctor's inside... he's pulling her out... she's out! She's really out!"

"But I don't hear anything!" Panic rose up in the back of my throat like bile. "Why is she so quiet?! What is she doing?!" I didn't ask, but I know Michael heard, Is she alive?

"I don't know," he said. "Her eye are open. She's just... looking around."

Then we heard a small snap! followed by an outraged wail.

"Oh my god!" I cried to my husband. "Did we make that? Did we make whatever is making that sound?"

Michael laughed. The nurse handed him a bundle that still wailed like a siren. He brought it as close to my head as he could get.

"Here she is. Here's our daughter!"

I couldn't turn my head to see her face. The needle man had turned up the morphine and the last of my muscle control was slipping away. All I could see was the blanket and the tip of her little crocheted hat, but I could hear her cry. It was the most beautiful noise I had ever heard.

*****

The second time, three years later, was entirely different. I walked for hours that night around the labor and delivery floor, dragging a squeaky IV pole behind me as I worked to jump-start my contractions. The baby had turned, my water had broke. I would not have a c-section, in spite of my English doctor's cheerful predictions that he would be there in the morning to cut me open. Michael walked laps with me, held my hand, never let go. My mother was still in Arkansas, 18 hours away.

The walking worked. By midnight, the contractions were coming regular as clockwork. By 1AM, the needle man came to give me an epidural that never, ever took. By 2AM, I was screaming at the nurses to "come catch this baby!" Just before 3AM, my English doctor stumbled through the door, nurses doing their damnedest to tie up his smock as he took a seat between my legs. He almost didn't make it in time. The nurse almost really did have to catch. Five minutes later, I pushed out child number two. There was no cutting this time. Instead, I tore up the front, just a little, into the clitoris.

The one thing that didn't change was the little snap! we heard when the doctor thumped our daughter's foot, and the resounding wail that followed.

And it was still the most beautiful noise I have ever heard.

When the Empire Struck Out

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, a guy named George Lucas wrote and directed a movie called Star Wars: A New Hope. Maybe you've heard of it? I was seven at the time the movie came out, and completely blown away when I saw it on the silver screen. To this day, I think that the first (or fourth, depending on how you count them) Star Wars movie was what jump-started my obsession with speculative fiction. The following movies, The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi, only re-affirmed my love for sci fic, and for years following the release of Jedi, I and other millions of fans waited in eager anticipation to see what Lucas would do with the rumored prequel films.

Too bad he fucked it up.

Yes folks, I am one of those crochetedy old folks who looks at the latest trio of Star Wars movies and turns my nose up in disdain. How could Lucas screw things up so badly? I mean, I'll forgive a lot of things that man has done - hell, I don't even complain about that freaked out Christmas Special he produced, starring Bea Arthur for pete's sake - but Phantom Menace? What the hell was he thinking?!

I will not get into to what I think is wrong with Phantom Menace and the other prequel trilogy movies (whose names I can't remember and can't be bothered to look up). Suffice to say, the man who sparked my love of sci-fi made me scream with outrage over his follow up acts. In fact, it was one of those instances where I thought, "Jeeze Louise! I could write better than that!"

Which brings me to the actual topic of my discussion today - fan fiction. Ah yes, the guilty pleasure of geeks the world over. How many of us have longed to rewrite Phantom Menace, and get the story right this time? How many of us looked beyond Return of the Jedi to hypothesize what the future might be like for Luke, Leia and Han? Yeah, yeah, the latter actually did get done via a talented set of authors like Timothy Zahn who were contracted to write the follow up books since Lucas wasn't going to produce those movies (and here I thank God for small favors; I can only imagine how bad the last three movies might have turned out!). Still, why should those writers have all the fun? We all loved Star Wars and we all had our dreams about what the characters might have done, had we been in charge of their story.

Fan fic isn't limited to Star Wars, of course. In fact, I believe it got it's start with Star Trek. I know for a fact a certain sub-genre of fan-fic was born out of that particular universe. The entire m/m erotic romance genre should bow down in humble gratitude to those first writers who dared to create Kirk/Spock slash fiction. Verily, our roots lie there.

A not-so-careful search of the internet will reveal that fan fic, and especially slash fic, has invaded all sorts of beloved tales. From Star Trek and Star Wars to Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings, with many cross-overs in between, fans are creating the sequels they want for the characters they love. Be these chaste stories of action and adventure or wildly improbable tales of lusty elf/dwarf romance (Legolas and Gimli, anyone?), there's a whole slew of alternate universes out there waiting to be written.

Did a favorite TV show kill off the character you love? Bring him or her back to life through the wonders of fan fic!

Do you ache to see Snape and Lupin get it on doggy or werewolf style? Fire up that laptop and show us what you got!

Want to rewrite Phantom Menace? Go ahead! Please god, rewrite that awful tripe. You couldn't do worse than George Lucas, especially if you find some creative way to put Jar-Jar Binks' overly long tongue to use ("Meesa like oral sex!").

Of course, there are always issues to consider whenever you venture into someone else's playground. You are working with someone else's intellectual property you know, so don't sell it or try to claim the characters or setting as your own (piracy and plagarism are still piracy and plagarism, and should not be tolerated). Instead, just have fun. And to you creators out there who's work is being fan-ficced, keep in mind that's what this is all about; your readers and your viewers enjoying what you made. We love you, really. And that's why millions upon millions are out there rewriting and extending your stories, though if you fuck up, we'll deal with that too. Perhaps folks like George Lucas should consider it the Revenge of the Fandom Menace.

Nothin' but love, George. Nothin' but love.

*****

A year or so ago, I wrote the only piece of fan fic that I've ever produced. Here's a snippet...

Torch This!

by Helen E. H. Madden

It was a dark and stormy night…

Thunder crashed as Mary Sue typed the words into her laptop. Though a real storm raged and bellowed outside her living room window, she paid it no heed. Wrapped up as she was in her favorite terry cloth bathrobe and fuzzy bunny slippers, she was perfectly cozy and content. What's more, she was in the zone.

The fan-fic writing zone, that is.

Tippy tap, tippy tap, her fingers danced over the keyboard, bringing her favorite characters to life. Lured by the sound of a writer hard at work, plot bunnies scurried out from under the couch to array themselves at Mary Sue's feet. They looked more like little bits of fluff than actual bunnies, but they were very cute and enticing. One jumped onto Mary Sue's lap.

"Oooh! You look like fun!" She scratched the plot bunny's fluffy little chin. "You know, those big blue eyes of yours remind me of… Frodo Baggins! Oh, and Samwise Gamgee!"

At that very moment, a crackle of electricity shot out of the laptop's screen and coiled around the plot bunny. As it pulled the squealing creature into the computer, Mary Sue gave a wicked smile.

"Oooooooooooh," the other plot bunnies murmured, and they huddled closer to each other.

"I think Frodo and Sam deserve a very special story tonight, don't you?" Mary Sue said to the bunnies, and she began to type even faster, her eyes alight with glee.

It was a dark and stormy night. Frodo and Sam huddled together for warmth in a cave outside Minas Morgul. They desperately wished they could be back at Bag End in Hobbiton, curled up beneath a mountain of blankets before a warm and toasty fire.

"Mr. Frodo, do you think we'll ever see home again?" Sam whispered in the gloom of the cave.

"I don't know if we'll ever see it again for real, Sam. But when you hold me, I feel like I am home." Frodo shivered. "I'm so cold. Don't let go of me, Sam."

Sam squeezed his fellow hobbit tighter. He opened his shirt and pressed Frodo's hands against his bare chest to warm them. "I promise, I won't ever let g-"

"This is Torchwood! Open up!"

At that very moment, the front door to Mary Sue's condo burst open. The writer looked up, blinking in surprise. The plot bunnies dove for cover as a tall, dark-haired stud of a man in a long RAF greatcoat strode through the splintered remains of the door. He was followed by scrumptious-looking younger fellow with puppy-dog eyes, dressed a dapper three-piece suit.

The tall man in the great coat drew out a very large revolver and pointed it at Mary Sue. "Mary Sue Smith, you're under arrest for possession of alien technology and infringement of copyright laws. Put the laptop down and step away from the plot bunnies. Now!"

"Oh… my… gawd!" Mary Sue squealed and clapped her hands. "You're Captain Jack Harkness! And that's Ianto Jones! I was just thinking about you guys. But wait, where's the rest of your team?" Before either man could answer her, another plot bunny jumped into her lap and was promptly devoured by the computer. Mary Sue giggled. "Hold on a sec. I've got to get this down!"

*****

You can find the rest of the story here ;) Enjoy!

My dreaded Chick Lit novel

"Lucy, come quick!"

"I'm here already!" I flew into the kitchen, spurred by the hysteria in Karen's voice, and collided with her at the door. I had to grab her by the arm to keep her from falling over.

"What's wrong?" I demanded. Even with my support, Karen teetered on her high heels, looking pale and jittery.

"We've got a food critic!" she blurted out, pointing a well-manicured finger in the direction of the dining room. "Stella Von Stratten just showed up with a party of four."

"Stella Von Stratten? Are you sure?"

Karen nodded excitedly. My stomach flip-flopped like a stack of pancakes. Stella Von Stratten was a critic for the North Carolina Sentinel. Scratch that. Stella Von Stratten was the food critic for the Sentinel. Her syndicated column ran in over twenty different news papers and magazines, both regional and national, and she was so popular that Travel North Carolina used her reviews for its recommended dining guide. Stella checked out a different restaurant every week. If she liked a place, gourmands from all over the country flocked to it just to try the appetizers. Tables stayed booked months in advance. The owners made obscene amounts of money, bought a yacht and retired to sail around the world. If she hated it on the other hand, the restaurant went out of business the next day, the owners filed for bankruptcy and all the cooking staff committed seppuku with their mise en place. Personally, I did not care for seppuku. It dulled the knives.

"What table?" I demanded.

"Number six, by the big potted plant."

I rushed to the kitchen doors and poked my head out. Sitting right next to a burgeoning Bird of Paradise was a petite woman in a peacock-colored Ann Taylor dress. Her black hair was pulled tight into a low bun and tortoiseshell Prada frames balanced daintily upon her long, thin nose. I caught a glimpse of something very sparkly and expensive at her throat -- Stella Von Stratten's trademark diamond necklace.

"Shit." I pulled my head back into the kitchen. "It's her all right. Did you tell Donald yet?"

"No. His office door is locked and he's not answering. Lucy, what are we going to do?"

Karen wrung her hands so tight I thought she was going to break some fingers. When she started shaking, I grabbed her by the shoulders to hold her still.

"Just calm down," I told her, trying to ignore my own heart pounding in the back of my throat. "She's a customer, so we do what we always do. We take her order and we cook her meal."

"But what if she doesn't like the food?" Karen squeaked. "I mean, Bernard's a great chef, but this is Stella Von Stratten!"

The kitchen went dead silent. I could feel all eyes fix on me. My face flushed with anger. "Oh, you did not just say that to me!" I whispered. First Donald, then my staff, and now Karen; did anybody trust me to do my job right? "Karen Reynolds, this is my kitchen and you know I'm going to cook this meal."

"But Donald said Bernard--"

"Donald isn't here!" I snapped. "And even if he was, I'm still the head chef. Or has everybody forgotten that?"

"No," Bernard drawled behind me. "We just weren't sure you remembered it yourself, Fraulein."

"Shut it, Bernard."

I glared at Karen. She dropped her gaze. "I'm sorry Lucy. You're right. I'm just a little nervous. A review from Stella Von Stratten could really make or break us, you know?"

"So calm down," I repeated. "Going nuts like this isn't going to help. Find Donald and let him know what's going on. But first make sure whoever is serving Stella's table is on the ball. Service matters just as much as the food on this one."

Karen took a deep breath and straightened up. "You got it. I'll take her order myself." She hurried back out to the dining room, her high heeled shoes going clickety-clack over the tile floor. I turned to survey the kitchen. Lewis, I noticed, had returned to his station.

"Okay," I said, working to keep the tremor out of my voice. "As soon as we get that order, we move. Whatever Stella Von Stratten wants, however she wants it, she gets it."

From Whip It! (work in progress)

*****

Last month, I conducted an experiment called PerNoFiMo - Personal Novel Finishing Month. Similar to NaNoWriMo, the idea was to turn out between 20-40K words in the month of November. Because I had three unfinished novels sitting on my computer, I decided to see how far I could get in finishing one of them. I picked the one I had gotten the furthest along in and pounded away at it for 30 days. The result? 40,003 words written by November 29th. The novel still isn't finished, but it is now twice as long as it was before I started.

This particular novel is one that's been sitting on my hard drive for ages. You see, a couple years ago, I made the mistake of opening my big mouth in front of a publisher and saying, "You know what would be really funny? A BDSM chick-lit novel! Especially if the chick in question goes on to become a dominatrix!" And much to my surprise, the publisher turned around and said, "You are so writing that for me!"

Even more surprising, the publisher in question is still waiting for said novel after all this time. I'm not kidding when I say this damn thing has been sitting on my hard drive for almost three years. In that time, I have gone through periods where I've been really good about writing on the book for a couple of weeks, and then something comes up and I let it gather dust for a couple of months or more. Why have I let slide on a book that I know a publisher is interested in? The fact is, while I like a lot of what I've written so far, I'm just not that crazy about writing chick-lit. Oh, I can do it, and have done it a couple of times now. Two months ago, I even turned out a chick-lit erotica novella, A Room With A View, and got it published. Seriously, from start to finish I think the whole process of writing and publishing A Room With A View took only two months!

So what's my problem with this other book? Well, I may have shot myself in the foot. Among other things, you may have noticed that the book is about a chef, and I know jack shit about the restaurant business. That's a problem I could certainly fix, but for the purposes of this story it requires quite a bit of research. Oh, and did I mention said chef goes on to start her own catering business? And the setting is contemporary, in a local I don't live in, as opposed to some fantasy or sci-fi setting that I could easily make up. That means even more research on unfamiliar topic. Plus the whole thing is a mystery as well as a chick lit novel, requiring that I very carefully pace the story and set up clues along the way. I don't mind doing this at all, but combined with the research I need to do, that's a bit more work that I really wanted to chew off.

But last month, I tossed aside all concerns of research and just pounded out the story. Until I ran out of story to write because of dratted "I need to plot out this mystery" problems. But at that point, I switched to sort of outlining, asking myself what the problems are in the story and how could I fix them, and what happens next, etc.

So I ended up with 40K words of drivel added onto the 40K words of story I already had. The excerpt above is from the polished story part, not the drivel I produced last month, obviously. And I still didn't reach the end of my story on November 29th. I just haven't worked out the entire story yet.

What will I do with my poor work-in-progress now? Let it sit again for a couple of months. I have three stories to write and edit for three different anthologies, and I need to get those turned out. Then once again I will dredge up Lucy and her catering business and burgeoning desire to be a dominatrix who's large and in charge of her life. And I will sit with that novel and work things out until it's done. And hopefully the publisher will still be interested when I hand her the finished work.

You will respect my authority!

Some days, I like to lie and tell myself that being a writer means for at least a small part of the time, I am actually in charge of people who will do exactly what I tell them to do. I mean, I'm the writer after all, right? When I write a character, that fictional person will do exactly whatever it is I decide they are going to do, without any back-talking or heel dragging or whining or outright rebellion. Writers write and characters obey. Right?

Wrong. Oh so dead wrong. Anybody who has written a story will tell you horror stories of characters run amok. You set out to write a beautiful little love story full of tenderness and life lessons and the next thing you know, your main character has pulled out a chainsaw to hack up the zombie hordes who have decided to invade the plot line. It happens so frequently, I wonder why I even bother to kid myself that I'm the one doing the actual creative part of the writing. I'm not. I'm just some schlub taking dictation half the time. The other half the time, I'm some schlub who's down on her knees begging her characters to say something, anything to get a story moving forward. Yeah, it sucks to be a writer.

I've actually written quite a few stories about fem dommes. I like seeing women in charge, especially in charge of men. It's a huge turn on for me to write these stories, right up until the characters take off in some direction I didn't expect, and then I'm back to being the dictation-taking schlub. One of my first fem domme stories was called A Man In A Kilt, and it was about a dominatrix who's lover is - you guessed it - a kilt-wearing Scott.

*****

We were at Jimmy's place one night when the phone rang. Jimmy was kneeling on the floor with a spreader bar between his ankles. I sat behind him, binding his wrists behind his back. We were busy, so after the fourth ring, the machine answered for us.

"Hey Jimmy! It's yer brother! Pick up the phone!" Jimmy started as a Highlands brogue rang loud and clear over the answering machine.

"Sorry," I told the machine as I stood up to survey my handiwork. "Jimmy's a little tied up right now!"

"Nan!" Jimmy strained against the cotton ropes, trying to free his hands.

"Don't worry, love," I cooed as I guided his head to the floor. His ass came up as his head went down, presenting me with a picture-perfect view of his anus, scrotum, and cock. "He can't hear me."

"Where the hell are ye?" the voice continued. "Nobody's seen ye in months, and ah'm starting to worry. Come doon to the pub tomorrow night so ah know yer not dead."

The phone clicked and the answering machine fell silent. The only sounds in the room now came from Jimmy as he continued to struggle.

"You're never going to get free," I said as I knelt behind him and fastened a leather strap around his balls. "Why don't you just relax?"

Two pieces of lightweight chain dangled from the strap. Jimmy gave a little moan as I hung a small weight between them. With a push of the finger, I sent the weight swinging just a bit. It tugged his balls back and forth as it swayed.

"Oh God Nan!" Jimmy gasped. "What are ye doing to me?"

"Something you'll like. Trust me."

I waited while Jimmy bitched and moaned. The weight gradually came to a stop and he calmed down a bit. Then I slipped my fingers between his legs and started rubbing the sweet spot just behind his balls. Jimmy moaned and rocked his hips, which sent the weight swinging again.

"Ah! Ma baws, Nan! Please!"

"Now, now. This doesn't hurt and I promise your family jewels won't fall off. Oh, speaking of family, you never told me you had a brother!"

I continued to massage his perineum with one hand as I slid the other around his hips to stroke his cock. Jimmy couldn't help himself. He stiffened right up and pushed forward into my grasp. The weight swung in a wider arc and Jimmy swore.

"Language, dear!" I chided him. "So what's your brother like? Is he nice?"

"He's just... oh God... he's a'right..." Jimmy gasped. I quit stroking his shaft and began toying with the Prince Albert dangling from the tip of his cock. He shuddered as I twirled the shiny steel ring in and out of his urethra. The piercing was my gift to Jimmy on our one-month anniversary, my way of saying how special he was to me, and I played with it every chance I got.

"He's okay, huh? Maybe you should take me to this pub tomorrow night so I can meet him."

"Oh, ah don't know, Nan... Oh God!" He jerked as I left off massaging his perineum and pressed a finger against his anus.

"Oh quit fussing! It's not like I'm exploring virgin territory here. Besides, I've got plenty of lube." I let up on Jimmy's trap door long enough to grab the nearby tube of gel and flip the top open. I squeezed out a dollop and slowly spread it between his cheeks. "So why won't you take me to see your brother? You too embarrassed to introduce me to your family?"

"No!" Jimmy's hips came up high as I teased the rim of his little brown hole. The weight arced between his legs like a fortuneteller's pendulum.

"So why not take me to the pub?"

"Oh God Nan! Ah'll do whatever ye want!"

"I want to meet your brother tomorrow. Think we can do that?"

This time I pinched the head of his cock. Jimmy bucked uncontrollably and the weight swung wild.

"Aye! Aye! Please Nan! God please!"

"Good boy. That's exactly what I wanted to hear," I said as I slipped a finger inside him.

From A Man In A Kilt, published by Logical Lust.

*****

When I started working on A Man In A Kilt, I had had a certain preconceived notion of what a dominatrix was supposed to act like. You know the stereotype; the she-bitch in black leather corset and matching thigh-high boots who walks around swinging a riding crop. But Nan flat out refused to conform to that idea. She was just too damned easy going. She was also too damned sure of herself to let me write her any other way, so I did my obedient little dictation thing and just wrote as fast as I could to keep up with her. Then I submitted my story to the critique group at the Erotica Readers and Writers Association to see what others thought. Wouldn't you know it? The first critique I got back told me I had done it all wrong. Nan was no good as a dominatrix. She should have been more severe, a hard-nosed bitch who wouldn't put up with any nonsense from her sub. My critic even went on to suggest that Nan should have stabbed a potential rival in the hand with a fork in one scene. It was an interesting critique as I recall.

But it also wasn't the only feedback I got. Other writers came back with fervent support of Nan. No she didn't conform to the usual ideal of a dominatrix, but she was definitely in charge of the story. Considering that Nan had pretty much written the story, those supporters had no idea how right they were! In the end, I let Nan be Nan and went on to publish the story not once, not twice, but four times. To this day, I'm still getting positive feedback on it.

Nan was my first dominatrix, but hardly my last. Since then I've written about Amazons who turn the tables on self-indulgent frat boys making homemade porn; a world where women rule and virgin men are married off for expensive dowries; dryads who torment lazy gardeners with whips of willow branches; and my own personal favorite, a dominatrix who sees the future every time she comes. None of these women are the stereotypical ice queen in black leather. Heck, some of them aren't even human! But they are all in charge of their own stories, and I do not dare suggest that they be anything other than what they are.

I am a writer. I like to pretend that I am in charge of my characters. Fortunately, we all know better than that. Right?

Right!

*****

"Sahir came... Sahir comes... is coming, will have come..."

It sounded like a lesson in verb tenses, but it was actually the beginnings of a prescient vision, the kind Nadine only got when she was on the verge of a twenty mega-ton orgasm. The word come sounded promising, but my name was Aaron, not Sahir, and it kind of bothered me to hear Nadine call out another man's name when things were getting hot and heavy. Not that I thought she was involved with anyone named Sahir. It's just that after spending two years as her boy-toy, it would have been nice to hear my loving domme shout Aaron, Aaron! when she was about to blow.

"Sahir will come... will come..."

Well, at least she was with me physically. Gray eyes glazed, vision turned inwards, Nadine cinched a piece of surgical tubing around my freshly shaved balls. All the while, she kept muttering about Sahir. I bit the penis-shaped gag stuffed in my mouth and groaned. I should have realized playtime wasn't her top priority when she brought me into the lab instead of the apartment upstairs. Most dominatrixes have a dungeon. Not Nadine. She was a scientist, so she had a lab and a test subject, a very willing test subject.

From the start of our relationship, she'd measured all my responses, tested my physical and mental capacities, and analyzed my phobias and fetishes. Feminization ranked as my fifth-worst fear as well as my second favorite turn-on, which meant wearing frilly panties got me so hard it scared the hell out of me. So naturally, Nadine had transformed me into a little girl for this particular session. I stood before my latex-clad domme, hands secured behind my back, wearing a lacy pink baby-doll dress with matching socks and patent leather shoes. A pair of itchy ruffled panties hung around my ankles. I had cried when she made me put them on, then breathed a sigh of relief two hours later when she finally yanked them down to torment my cock.

"Sahir comes... comes up to the register... he counts the till..."

Damn, still talking about Sahir. Sahir was the guy who ran the convenience store a few blocks from Nadine's house. He got robbed once a month, but she'd had never had a vision about it before now. Why the hell was he so important this evening?

"Sahir counts the till... a boy is hiding... hiding in the store..."

Beads of sweat formed around a series of flat metal disks pasted to Nadine's forehead. More disks lay hidden beneath the red latex suit that encased her from neck to ankle. The wireless electrodes, one of Nadine's early inventions from the days she worked for a biotech firm, stood out as stark white patches against her dusky brown skin. They transmitted her brainwave activity to a nearby computer where all Nadine's visions were recorded for later analysis.

"The boy pulls out a gun... Sahir doesn't see... he counts the till..."

As her vision grew more intense, I stole a peek at the computer's monitor. A series of wavy lines crawled across the screen. The third line from the bottom, the one Nadine said represented her theta waves, began to spike. Did that mean she was close to coming, or was that a symptom of the vision she was experiencing?

Wham! The stinging smack of a paddle on my ass drove any further questions from my mind. Even through the vision, Nadine had sensed my straying attention. To correct me, she picked up a small leather flogger and began slapping my cock with it. With every stroke, my tortured dick bounced up and down.

Nadine continued muttering about Sahir and the hidden boy. I writhed before her, caught in a hellish mix of agony and ecstasy. Beneath the surgical tubing, my balls swelled and ached. The throbbing head of my cock turned purple and started to leak. A buildup of pressure at the base of my dick told me I was almost home, but just as I was about to drop to my knees and explode, Nadine tossed the flogger aside and spun me around to face the examining table. I wanted to scream in frustration, but the gag made it pointless to try. Even in her current state, the lady knew exactly how to take me to the edge and keep me there for hours on end.

"The boy is hiding... a red-haired boy hides, pulls out a gun... Sahir counts the till..."

Christ, could she just shut up about Sahir? Nadine grabbed me by the neck and bent me over the table. I heard the snap of latex and felt a cold dollop of lube hit between my ass cheeks. My third-worst fear and all-time favorite kink-anal penetration-kicked into play as Nadine's slender gloved fingers spread the lube around my clenched hole.

Heart pounding, I wriggled and bucked, desperate to break free. Hell if I was going to let some woman finger-fuck me! I was the guy, I was supposed to do the penetrating. No way was I going to stand there, dressed up like fucking Shirley Temple, and take it up the ass from some bitch!

Nadine grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and shoved me back down on the table. With my hands cuffed and my ankles hobbled by those damn ruffled panties, there wasn't much I could do except whimper into my gag. Then Nadine slipped a couple fingers inside my sphincter and I just melted. Waves of pleasure rippled through my body as she eased them in and out of my hole. I couldn't fight her. I didn't want to. It felt good when she fingered me, calling me her sweet boy, playing with my cock while she stretched my hole wide. I wanted her to fuck me. I wanted her to bend me over and make me cry. Most of all, I just wanted to hear her say my name.

"Sahir looks up... he sees the gun... Sahir..."

God dammit! I started struggling again. I didn't want to hear about Sahir and some stupid robbery. I wanted Nadine to focus on me.

"Sahir sees the gun... the boy with the gun..."

Nadine forced me back down on the table and slipped a third finger inside me. My knees started to shake. I'd never taken more than two before. Now I was stretched impossibly wide. A million different feelings flooded my brain-fear, pleasure, shock, shame, excitement, relief... I had Nadine's attention, all right. That one extra finger had put me into orbit, and she knew it. If she did anything else...

"The boy pulls out the gun... puts his finger on the trigger..."

I was so excited I could barely hear the words anymore. Nadine grabbed my hair and pulled me upright as she continued to work my ass. As soon as I was standing, her hand snaked around my waist and gripped my cock. I forgot all about Sahir and Nadine's vision. I rocked my hips back and forth, thrusting into her clenched fist and then back onto the fingers of her other hand. I started to moan and shiver, all my senses focused on my throbbing dick and my aching hole. The buildup inside me grew and grew and grew...

"Sahir sees the gun... the boy pulls the trigger... the boy pulls... Oh god, Aaron... Aaron... Aaron!"

My name at last. The sweetest sound in the world issued forth from my lover's lips as I shot my load all over the examining table. Behind me, I felt Nadine stiffen and shudder. Her hand tightened on my cock, squeezing the life out of it along with the last drops of cum. Completely exhausted, my knees gave out. Nadine and I sank to the floor.

Nadine pulled the gag out of my mouth. I turned to curl up against her, burying my face in her neck. "Oh Nadine, oh god I love you," I whimpered.

Panting, she stripped off the latex glove and tossed it aside, then held me tight to stroke my hair. "It's all right, baby. Mama's got you."


I wriggled closer for a kiss. She gave me a squeeze, then straightened up.

"Honey, we got to get moving." She pushed me away and struggled to her feet. "Come on, get up. We've got to go."

"Nadine, please!" But she was already pulling me up after her. With a quick tug, Nadine undid the restraints from my wrists. She tore the electrodes off her face and scalp and grabbed the coat she'd left hanging on a nearby wall hook. Then she snatched my clothes off the floor and shoved them into my arms.

"Don't just stand there, Aaron, we've got to go. Sahir's in trouble."

"What, you saw him getting robbed again?" I snapped. "He gets held up all the time. Why the hell are we running out to help him tonight?"

"Because tonight he gets shot and killed!"

Nadine glared at me, her grey eyes sparking. Shamefaced, I dropped my gaze to my patent leather shoes.

"Can't we just call the police?"

"They won't get there in time. Now come on, we're leaving."

She spun on her heel and raced out of the lab, pulling on her coat as she went. I yanked up my panties and ran after her. I prayed no one would see me stumble outside to the car. The engine was already running by the time I slid into the passenger seat. As Nadine tore off down street, I struggled into my clothes. Oh well, at least she said my name when she came.

From Future Perfect, published by Logical Lust.

No chicken soup for you!

I think this week is the first in a few months that I've actually felt half-way decent. I've been able to drag myself out of bed in the mornings with a minimal amount of effort, I can stay upright and functioning most of the day, and I've even made it to karate class twice this week. Oh yeah, I've got this pain-in-the-ass sinus thing going on which isn't any fun, but over all I do feel pretty good.

I knew this year was going to be prime time for sicknesses in la Casar de Madden. You see, my youngest started preschool in September, and I know from experience that putting a child in a new environment with lots of other kids automatically means that the entire family is going to be infected with every disease that comes along. So far this year we've had strep throat, the flu, sinus infections, walking pneumonia and an ear infection spread amongst the lot of us. And those are just the diseases we can identify! I've been laid up twice since September by some weird unnamed malaise, where I get all the chills and the aches and general feeling of fatigue of the flu without the congestion or upset stomach that normally goes with it.

And have I been writing through all this? You betcha!

Like others have mentioned here, when I'm sick, I tend to push aside all non-writing tasks and just focus on the most important thing, the writing itself. I have a weekly deadline for the Heat Flash Erotica podcast and I don't want to bust that deadline under any circumstances. To ensure I do what I need to do, I will curl up in bed with my heating pad and my laptop and keeping tapping away at the keys until I've got my story done. Then I'll either fall asleep, take a long hot bath in the tub, or...

Go take care of my kids, because there are some non-writing related tasks that simply cannot be ignored.

(I would like to state here that I do not recommend being a writer and a parent and ill all at the same time. All three at once will just about kill a person some days.)

Thanks to Twitter, I've noticed that a lot of writers tend to be sick more often than not. We literary types are plagued by migraines, insomnia, ulcers and other ailments, and we talk (or tweet) about them constantly. It's as though we want the whole world to know we are suffering, but we are still producing our art. To hell with that, I say. I hate suffering. If I'm going to be sick while writing, I'm going to do my damnedest to be as comfortable as possible. You know what that means of course. Comfort food.

Now I do not do this "Chicken Soup for the Writer's Soul" crap. Quite frankly, I hate chicken soup. Besides, chicken soup is not an appropriate soup for erotica writers. Erotica writers need something spicier, and meatier. When erotica writers get sick, they should all make themselves a pot of kielbasa-potato stew! What? You've not heard of this amazing delicacy? Because I love you all, I will share the recipe.

Ingredients:

• 3 cups water


• 1 10.5 oz can of cream of chicken soup (okay, yes it has chicken soup in it, but it's still not chicken soup!)


• 1 pound Polish kielbasa (Don't get cheap kielbasa! This thing should be long, and stiff, and meaty, and mouth-wateringly tasty! This is a stew for smut writers, people!)


• 20 oz of frozen shredded potatoes, preferably Southwest style because they're so spicy (and we smut writers are all about the spicy!)


• 1/8 teaspoon black pepper

Cut the kielbasa into 1/2 inch slices. Add all ingredients together in one pot. I prefer to make my stew in a slow cooker to bring out the flavor of the kielbasa, but if you're in a hurry, a big Dutch oven on the stove will do. Then just let everything cook until it's done (about 6 hours in the slow cooker, 30 minutes on the stove). Grab a bowl and eat up. Trust me, you will be feeling much better by the time you're done.

You see how much I love you? You see how much I care? Now go make me a pot of this stew, because I feel another cold coming on.

;^)

An Interview with the Hubster

I have no frikkin' idea what it's like to live with a writer, because I do not live with one, I am one. So for this week I had to turn to the nearest source of information on the topic... the Hubster. We sat down Thursday evening to discuss the matter.

*****

Me (at my desktop in my pajamas): Come here, you have to help me with something.

Hubster (at his desktop in his pajamas): What's that?

Me: I have to write a blog post on what it's like to live with a writer. You're going to answer some questions for me.

Hubster: Uh...

Me: Well?

Hubster: Questions?

Me: First question. What's it like to live with a writer?

(Long pause... Laughter... Another long pause... )

Me: Okay, laughing boy, you have to answer sometime.

Hubster: I'm thinking... There's a lot of clacking, that's for sure.

Me: Shut it. I have to type while we're doing this so I can get it all down. Now answer the question. What's it like to live with a writer?

(Yet another long pause... more laughter...)

Me: Just do this thing for me.

Hubster: Okay. Let's see, uh, spouse disappears for hours at a time.

Me: So long that you've considered calling for a search and rescue team?

Hubster: Well that's when I send the kids upstairs.

Me: You send the kids because you don't want to come up and interrupt?

Hubster: No, I assume you'll eventually get hungry.

Me: So other than disappearing, what else?

(Long pause...)

Hubster: Lots of topics about situations that don't normally occur in everyday life.

Me: Like what?

Hubster: Well there was the conversation this morning.

Me: The one about tea bagging?

Hubster: Yeeeeeessss...

Me: Hey, I thought you would find that interesting from a political standpoint. Personally, I will never look at the Tea Party Rallies in the same light ever again.

Hubster: Uh-huh.

(Long pause...)

Me: Okay, so what's the worst thing about being married to a writer?

Hubster: Not seeing your spouse for hours at a time.

Me: I might point out, you are the one who works outside the house eight or more hours a day.

Hubster: Yes I am.

Me: You are also the one who goes to conferences every month.

Hubster: Yes. You only do that for the first half of the year.

Me: My conferences don't usually take all week.

Hubster: Uh-huh.

Me: Whatever. What's the best thing about being married to a writer?

(Long pause... More laughing...)

Me: Okay Chuckles, you're not getting paid by the hour here.

(Longer pause...)

Hubster: I'm trying to pick from all the ideas in my head. You did ask for the best thing. I'm going to go with the constantly expanding intellect.

Me: This isn't some crack about my waistline is it?

Hubster: Only if you keep all your thoughts around that area.

Me: Smart man. Now, what's the most unique thing, the thing you never expected, about living with a writer?

(Hubster makes a face. He's thinking really, really hard now. More thinking...)

Hubster: You needing three computers.

Me: Well I do use all of them. Every day in fact. So it's not like they're going to waste. Would you rather I use your computer?

Hubster: No.

Me: Do you think our life together is better since I've become a writer, or worse? Or is there no change at all?

Hubster: You being a writer is not really the biggest before and after change in our life.

Me: What do you mean?

Hubster: Well, life when you started writing got better, because you had something you enjoyed outside of work. But now that we have kids and nobody has any time left, it's about the same.

Me: When did I started writing? Before kids?

Hubster: Yeah! You do remember there was a life before the children.

Me: So I've been told. Well anyway, I'm not the only one who's always busy.

(Silence.)

Hubster: That's because I spend so much time thinking of how to make you happy.

(Eye rolling commences.)

Me: Last question. What would you want people to know about living with a writer?

Hubster: Make your plans well ahead of time and get agreement from the writer. Then leave sticky notes afterward.

Me: Hey, is it my fault you always rattle off things like plans before you head out the door in the morning?

Hubster: I'm just saying...

Me: Give me a kiss, you goof, and then get out of here. I gotta clean this thing up or else nobody's going to want to read it.

*****

And there it is, straight from the source. Life with a writer. Sounds pretty exciting, don't it?

For the record, Hubster's an engineer ;)

The 87th Problem

Eight or so years ago, I found myself in quite a situation. My darling Hubster had been offered not one but two jobs. The first offer came with a salary high enough to let me quit my day job right then and there, plus it came with benefits galore. It was in a line of work that Hubster was good at, though not in his first choice of specialty. It would also require us to pull up stakes and move. The company would help us find a new house, sell our old one, and offer a moving bonus to boot. The second job did not offer nearly as much money, though it offered more than Hubster was currenly making, and the benefits were okay. It wouldn't require us to move, and it was Hubster's dream job.

I think you know where this is headed.

At the time Hubster had these two job offers, I was wallowing in abject misery. I worked for the Man, putting in 80 hours a week and getting paid for only 40. I was under constant threat of being fired or replaced, in spite of the fact that I was very good at my job and worked so many unpaid extra hours. I absolutely loathed some of the people I worked with, especially the ones who had say over whether or not I kept my job, and they seemed to loathe me right back. It was a pretty abysmal situation to be in. I was so stressed over work that I had started seeing a therapist because seriously, it was either pay someone to listen to me rant and rave about my job or else end up on the evening news when the cops started finding dead bodies in my backyard.

Hubster knew all of this, and he knew I relished the idea of pulling up stakes and moving to another state. In addition to my work stress, I was also embroiled in a protracted disagreement with some friends, one of those high drama painful things where everyone is fighting over something so stupid it's ridiculous. And it was ridiculous, although at the time that argument seemed like a matter of life and death to everyone involved. I was desperate to get out of my current situation. I wanted to quit my job, leave my friends, and move to someplace where I could start all over. If Hubster took job #1, I knew that would happen. At least back then I believed that's what would have happened. Now, I'm not so sure.

Obviously, Hubster did not take job #1. After two weeks of deliberating and considering, he came home one night and said, "I know you want things to be otherwise, but I'm taking job #2. It doesn't pay as well, and I know it means you'll be stuck in a job situation you hate, but this is what I went to college for. This is the job I've always dreamed of having. If I don't take this job now, I may never get another chance." And I nodded my head, and said "I'm glad you've made your choice. I know it wasn't easy, but I love you and don't worry." Then I went upstairs and cried.

And after that... I got on with my life.

In both the long and short run, Hubster made the right choice. The firm that offered the higher paying job started laying people off a year later. Friends of the Hubster who had taken similar job offers suddenly found themselves out of work and worried that they might not be able to make their next house payment. Meanwhile, my job situation did not improve, but Hubster and I came to an agreement about when I could leave my job. I would put in one more year at the hell-hole I called work, giving him time to save up money and take over all the bills, and then I would be free to do whatever I wanted. Until then, I found ways to alleviate the misery I labored under. I threw myself into my hobbies, devoured books, took some nice vacations with the Hubster, and just stopped caring about the argument with my friends (because it really didn't matter). Oh, and I joined a Zen meditation group, where I slowly learned how to just let things be and accept the present moment for what it is.

There's a story about a farmer who visited the Buddha. The man was probably as miserable as I was during that time of my life, and he wanted to know how to solve all the problems he struggled with. He sat down with the Buddha and listed everything that made him miserable. He came up with 86 problems, total. The Buddha listened, nodded, and said, "I'm sorry, but I cannot help you with any of those 86 problems."

"What?" the farmer cried. "What kind of wise man are you?"

"I am the wise man who can help you with the 87th problem," the Buddha said.

"The 87th problem? What problem is that?" the farmer demanded.

"The problem of not wanting to have any problems," the Buddha said.

And there it is, the most basic truth I know and the lesson I carry from that difficult period in my life. We all have problems. We all have our periods of abject misery where we look around and desperately wish we could flee from our current situation. And maybe we do flee and succeed in getting away from those problems, but it doesn't matter because even if we manage to leave behind one set of problems, there are always others waiting for us ahead. The best way to deal with all 86 problems is to accept that they are there; to live in the present moment and say, "Yes, this is how it is," then get on with life. Eventually, things will change. The situation will pass. I know it did for me.

Namaste.

The Angle of Attack

by Helen E. H. Madden

Okay, picture this. It's Thursday night, last night in fact, 8:30PM and I'm sitting at my desk with a document open on the screen. The kids are in bed, and by all rights I should be too since I got up at 5AM, but I can't go to sleep because this week's story isn't finished. Normally, I would have gotten my week's writing done by Wednesday morning, Thursday AM at the latest. But not this week. Even though I'm a pro at churning out the tales, events have conspired this week to put me behind schedule. I've been sick. I've had insomnia that's left me half-dead during the hours I would normally be writing. I've had doctor's appointments that ate up half my work hours. One of my kids was sick, thus eating up the other half of my work hours.

Oh, and I've had writer's block. Joy.

Writer's block doesn't happen to me often, but when it does, it always strikes at the worst possible time. Writer's block likes to sneak up on me when I'm pressed for time or not feeling well, when I've got too many things to do and not enough time to do them in. Usually, this happens in the summer when both kids are home and spending all my time with them trumps sitting at the computer typing out stories. But this past October has been pretty bad with me being sick in bed twice and my youngest spending a week home with strep. Naturally, I cannot write under such circumstances.

Just as naturally, I refuse to concede I cannot write under such circumstances.

If you want to cure writer's block, commit yourself to a deadline. I mean really, truly commit yourself. And not to a deadline you set, but to a deadline someone else set, a deadline you promised you would meet no matter what. In my case, my deadline is set by my podcast, Heat Flash Erotica. I have to write a story a week for this show or I'll be sunk. I've got an internet radio station, www.RadioDentata, waiting for me to hand them the latest episode for Thursday evening. Then that same story drops into my podcast feed first thing Friday morning, when several hundred listeners are waiting to download it. You see, I made these folks a promise to deliver the goods every week, and I have to follow through or my name is Mud.

And honey, my name is never, ever Mud.

Here's how my lousy week with writer's block went. On Monday, I sat down at my desk like I always do, opened up my writing notebook, and looked at the ideas I had written down for this week's story. They all stunk. Oh, I had so half-assed scribbles about someone attending their own funeral, but no specific idea of where to go with it. So I spent my writing time that morning scratching some more in my notebook, trying to see where that idea would go. It went nowhere, of course.

On Tuesday morning, I had to finish up some production stuff on the latest episode of the podcast. I had meant to do this last Sunday, but I wasn't feeling well then and I had promised to make Halloween costumes for the kids that weekend, and well, you know how it goes. So there I was on Tuesday morning, editing audio and uploading MP3s to Radio Dentata and my podcast feed, thinking, "It's okay, I've still got a couple of days to write this story. And I don't really have a good idea yet. I'll work that out later today." Only I didn't work out my story idea later that day because I had to go to the doctor's office, and then I had to run errands and then I had to get to work on this new website I'm designing, and well... The story continued to go nowhere.

On Wednesday morning, I got up, determined to write. I didn't feel good, and I wondered if I had caught the strep throat my youngest had had the week before. I managed to stay up long enough to write 800 words of a story before crawling back into bed. I got another hour of sleep, then got up, saw my oldest off to school and, oh wait! Wednesday is play date day, the day my youngest stays home with me. (Wasn't she just home with me all last week when she had strep throat?) So after making the beds and folding the laundry, I take off with my daughter and we spend all day at Chick-Fil-A and then I come home and there's still that website to design and I haven't answered e-mail in two days and my god, look at how much e-mail there is sitting in my inbox, I've got to sort through that mess now and you know, I just realized that 800 words I wrote this morning is the wrong damn story! I hate when that happens. It's a perfectly good story, but it's going to be about 10000 words long, and I can't get 10000 words written by my Thursday deadline, not to mention which stories for the Heat Flash podcast are supposed to be short, meaning 3000 words or less. That means I'm going to have to start all over again tomorrow morning...

And so my story continued to go nowhere.

Thursday morning, I had to drag my sorry ass out of bed. I still didn't feel well, but I had to write or else I was screwed. So I crawled my way up to the office, sat down at my computer, opened up the story, trashed just about all of it, and started all over again. The new story was better, and I got another 800 words written to replace what I'd tossed earlier that morning, but it still wasn't quite right. What the hell was wrong with it? What was wrong with me? I knew there was a story in there somewhere, something about a man with too many wives who dies and suddenly has to make amends for not telling these women he'd been married to more than one of them at a time. It was there! I could feel it, but there was a wall around it, a big thick cinder block wall between me and my story, and I didn't like that one damned bit, no siree Bob.

Thus yesterday I had reached the point where the rubber meets the road. I had a story I couldn't get at. I had a writer's block I couldn't see around. I had a deadline coming up too damn fast. My weekly stories have to be written by Thursday night, because I'm supposed to spend Friday and Saturday morning recording and editing, and then get everything posted by Sunday. Now I'm no fool. I write my stories a month in advance so I wasn't in too dire straights if I busted this week's deadline, but I've been writing a story a week for over two years now, and I was damned if I was going to ruin my good record now!

So Thursday evening, after the Hubster came home and took the kids off my hands, I climbed back up to my office and sat down at my computer and rolled up my sleeves. "This is it, you son of a bitch," I said to the story on my screen. "It's me versus you. One of us is going down tonight, and it ain't gonna be me!" And then I started writing all over again from the beginning.

Writer's block is like that old children's song about tramping through the wood until you reach an obstacle like a river or a mountain or a wall. You can't go around it, you can't go over it, you can't go under it, you gotta go through it. And that's what I did. I sat down with my story and attacked it from every angle. I slapped my main character around until he told me a few things I needed to know. I killed off some of the secondary characters, sending them to that great secondary character graveyard in the sky. I forced another character to become someone entirely new, and then I tortured and twisted the plot line until suddenly I had an idea that made sense. Well, it made sense to me anyway, and that was all I needed. Then I sat down and typed, from start to finish, and occasionally I jumped around a bit, fixing this line here and that line there as the story slowly began to cooperate and come out from behind that damned wall. It took me two hours to write 3000 words. And suddenly my story was done.

This is how it works with writer's block and me. If a story doesn't work one way, I come at it another way. I switch up the angle of attack, assaulting the problem from every direction. It can be difficult, especially if I don't know exactly what the problem with the story is. But it's not impossible to solve. I just have to keep pounding away at it, fighting with the damn thing until it cries "Uncle" and gives me what I want.

It ain't pretty and it ain't nice, but I tell you what, it gets the job done.

When All Else Fails, Plan B

by Helen E. H. Madden

You are reading this post on a Friday (unless you're coming in late, in which case I have no idea what day you're reading it). I am writing this post, however, on Tuesday. On this particular Tuesday, according to my very detailed schedule, I was supposed to get up at 5AM, shower, grab a cup of tea and a piece of toast, and head up to my office to write a story for the Heat Flash Erotica Podcast. Well, I did that, sort of. Unfortunately, on this particular Tuesday, I woke up feeling like DEATH WARMED OVER. I skipped the shower, realizing that I wasn't going to be able to stay on my feet that long, went straight for the tea and toast, and then trudged up to the office to write. I lasted about 500 words before I finally decided to go back to bed. At 7AM, I sent the Hubster to get the kids up. I got up long enough to make sure everybody (except me) got dressed, ate breakfast, and made it out the door. And then I went back to bed, and that's where I've stayed all day.

I'm feeling better now, and by the time you read this I hope to be fully recovered, but for whatever reason, on this particular Tuesday morning, I was a corpse and I ended up throwing all my carefully made plans for the day out the window.

I'm anal about my work schedule. I work at home and up until this fall, I've had at least one child underfoot while I worked for the last six years. This has taught me to plan my days accordingly, to set up a schedule that will allow me to accomplish my work, and to keep endless lists of things to do so that I won't forget some important part of my career as a multi-national best selling author (to be). I keep my schedules, both daily and weekly, on a spread sheet, along with lists of monthly, quarterly, and annual goals. All this planning and scheduling is something I learned in college and in the Army Reserves, and it has served me well through the years, allowing me to get work done under otherwise writing-adverse circumstances.

Perhaps the most adverse working circumstances I ever faced as a writer came during my first two years of motherhood. Princess, my first born, was a colicky baby who had a habit of screaming any time I set her down. It made doing even the most mundane of tasks, like going to the toilet, a challenge. I had to find ways to work around her fits and tantrums. I discovered early on that it helped to have a plan of action for those difficult days. I called it the Princess Meltdown Action Plan, and it went something like this:

The Princess Meltdown Plan of Action

1. Stage 1 - You've put Princess down for her nap, but she starts fussing in her crib.
   
   
   Let her fuss for 20 minutes, in case she falls back to sleep.
   
   
   After 20 minutes, or when she really starts screaming, take her out of the crib and calm her down.
   
   
   Once she's calm, give her a bottle of juice or milk and let her play on the floor where you're working.
   
   
   If working upstairs...
   
   
   You can do any project you need to do, but Princess is very likely to get into things you don't want her to have, like office supplies and the stapler.
   
   
   If working downstairs...
   
   
   You can't work on certain graphics projects or e-mail, since your laptop isn't set up for those tasks. You can, however...
   
   
   Write, outline, or research a story.
   
   
   Work on some Bryce artwork, since Bryce is on the laptop.
   
   
   Do updates to websites.
   
   
   NOTE: The laptop will need to be fully charged, or else you will need to bring down the plug to plug it in. However, Princess is unlikely to get into any trouble downstairs since that whole area is child-proof.
   
   
   Estimated time you can work uninterrupted - 30 minutes.
   
   


2. Stage 2 - Princess starts fussing again. She wants you on the floor with her.
   
   
   Get on the floor and play with her for 10-15 minutes before going back to work. If she's not actively interested in you playing with her, but just wants you there on the floor, stay there and use the opportunity to do some yoga.
   
   
   If you haven't done so already, change the scenery. Either move upstairs or downstairs.
   
   
   Try nursing her. She may want to cuddle.
   
   
   Try giving her a snack - banana, cookie, crackers, etc.
   
   
   Estimated time before she starts fussing again - 15 minutes.
   
   


3. Stage 3 - Princess continues to fuss. You have to stay on the floor, and you know she will try to take anything you have in your hands.
   
   
   If you are working downstairs, turn on Sesame Street or Wiggles to keep her distracted. Try again to work at the laptop.
   
   
   If you are working upstairs, move downstairs. See above step regarding Sesame Street.
   
   
   You may have to get on the floor and stay there. You will need a backup project that you can work on, something she can't destroy or something that you can share with her.
   
   
   Project idea 1 - thumbnail sketches for art projects. You'll have to keep the pens out of Princess's reach, but it's easy to keep all these supplies in the coffee table downstairs. Give her some crayons and sheets of paper if she wants to draw too.
   
   
   Project idea 2 - writing ideas. Use your palm pilot or a notebook to outline ideas, take notes, develop novels for e-books, etc. Make this thinking time!
   
   
   Estimated time before she starts fussing again - 10 minutes
   
   


4. Stage 4 - Princess is now screaming and clinging to your leg. She may also be biting, hitting, and kicking.
   
   
   Plan on not working for at least the next hour. If you are facing a deadline, either you or the Hubster may have to skip karate class this evening so you can finish your work.
   
   
   If the weather is decent, take Princess outside for a walk or run. Or simply let her play on the grass while you do yoga or karate.
   
   
   If the weather is bad, get a glass of wine and turn on Sesame Street or Wiggles. Accept that you're just not going to get things done for the time being.
   
   
   Estimated time before you get your life back - six or seven years...

Ah yes, the meltdown plan. It was so detailed, so easy to follow when my brain shorted out from too much screaming baby! The meltdown plan saved many a work day for me, and it also let me know when I should give up trying to work and just hang out with my screaming baby. There were some days though when it was obvious that we'd reached Stage 4 before we'd even gotten out of bed. On those days, there was nothing I could do but quit before I'd even started and spend the day on the couch holding my screeching offspring. Maybe Princess was sick. Maybe I was sick. Maybe, gods forbid, the Hubster was sick (he's the biggest baby of all when sick!), and I was going to spend all day taking care of someone instead of getting any work done. Those were the days when I resorted to Plan B, and we all know what B stands for, don't we? B stands for BLOW OFF DAY!!

Blow Off Day was my way of letting myself off the hook as a mom. On Blow Off, it's okay to eat cereal all day and watch cartoons for six hours straight (hell, why stop at six? Watch 10 hours, I don't care!). It is perfectly acceptable to sit on the couch and do nothing but read, either to one's self or to a child who's nose is so filled with snot you fear her tiny little head may explode. On Blow Off Day, we wear sweat pants and no bra or makeup and we are not ashamed. On Blow Off Day, we order pizza for lunch and dinner. On Blow Off Day, it's five o'clock somewhere in the world which makes it perfectly okay to have that glass of wine right now (so long as I'm not driving!).

I don't do Blow Off Day often. Or should I say, "often enough"? One of the best Blow Off Days I can remember involved me watching a Dirty Harry marathon while breast feeding a six-month-old Princess for nine hours straight. I had the IQ of a cucumber that day, and boobs that stretched to my knees, but it didn't matter. It was Blow Off Day.

One morning, when my youngest daughter, Pixie, was sick, I came up with the Blow Off Day Anthem. Here it is:

(Sung to the tune of 'Camptown Races' (better known as the Foghorn Leghorn song))

The house is dirty, I don't care!


Do-dah, do-dah!


Gonna lie around in my underwear,


Oh-de-do-dah day!


I cleaned the house last night


And the kids destroyed it today


But it's Blow Off Day and I don't care


Oh-de-do-dah daaaaaaaay!

Trust me, for all your writerly habits, for all those hours you spend in the chair battling the blank page, you simply must give yourself a Blow Off Day every now and then. It's okay, really. Go ahead and become one with your couch. In the meantime, I'm going back to bed, because hey, it's still that particular Tuesday where I'm at right now, and I hearby declare this particular Tuesday to be Blow Off Day. Enjoy ;)